


Malice

by Taiven



Series: The M Series [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6391852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taiven/pseuds/Taiven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set seven years after "Mercy", Sam is now a promising new lawyer fresh out of law school and ready to tackle the scum of New York City. He has a bright future ahead of him, one that includes a beautiful fiancée and a large paycheck, but after he gains powerful enemies it seems that only a shadow from his past will be able to save him. AU, SLASH</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: the year is 2008, Sam is 25, Dean is 29, and they're not brothers (alternate universe)
> 
> Warnings:Foul language, graphic violence, substance abuse, sexual content, and other adult themes. Contains SLASH. Once again, messed up things happen in this story, so if you're sensitive then please think twice before reading it.

/

" _Did you let go of the demons on your back?_ "

\- _Cry Wolf_ , Mt. Wolf

/

"You touch me and I will chop your fucking balls off, you got it?" I glared at the guy to prove that I wasn't lying. His slimy smile faltered for a moment before it disappeared entirely, his expression transforming from cocky glee into pissed-off embarrassment. He withdrew his hand, which I knew had been heading for my ass, and hunched over the table as his buddies laughed loudly, teasing him. I would have smirked at my victory if I had not repeated this act a thousand times before. Years ago I had welcomed men hitting on me, but now it was just a pain in my neck. I didn't even crack a joke before taking their next order of drinks, pissed-off as I was.

"Fucking college kids," I muttered under my breath as I shoved and elbowed my way through the crowd, trying to forge a path back to the bar. I didn't have to keep my voice low, however, for I could have shouted it and no one would have been able to hear me. Harvelle's Roadhouse was packed tonight, the Friday of the last week of classes, and the mixture of voices all simultaneously talking was louder than the music blaring from the speakers. That pissed me off too, because I liked the song that was playing.

"You okay?" Ellen shouted to me as I struggled to slip behind the bar. I needed a small break; a respite from the chaos.

I nodded even though I wasn't sure of my answer, giving her the order before leaning against a shelf of booze. I watched as she mixed an assortment of drinks. Her hands were quick and nimble, handling the bottles, glasses, and mixer like they were extensions of her appendages. She had told me once that she had been a bartender in college, before she had become a police officer, and she had since proven it. Over and over again. I had no clue how she did it, especially on a busy night like this, when impatient pricks were shoving bills in her face at every turn.

I sighed and crossed my arms over my chest, wondering if this was the same thing Sam was doing in Stanford; if _he_ was one of those impatient pricks. To be honest, I couldn't picture him in this kind of setting, hitting on girls and consuming alcohol at unhealthy rates. But then again, I was picturing the Sam I had last seen seven years ago; the one who had hugged me and smiled before boarding a train to California, his hair too long and his eyes too sad. I'd seen him in pictures since then, on that _Facebook_ thing, or whatever it was called. I had even talked to him over the phone a few times, but he'd never returned to New York after he had left. I had entertained the idea of going to Stanford to visit him myself, but I always ended up chickening out, making excuses. Besides, Ellen was way too overprotective these days to let me travel that far without some sort of chaperone.

"Jo, you listening?" I snapped out of my thoughts and refocused on Ellen, who was calling over her shoulder at the bar. She gave me a questioning look and then I was back in server mode, taking the tray of drinks she had prepared and holding it above my head as I embarked on the tedious journey back to the table of rowdy boys. Fortunately, Mr. Hands On was quiet this time, and aside from a few drinks being spilled on me, the remainder of the night went without incident.

By closing time I could tell that Ellen was exhausted. It was hard to imagine she could still keep up with the late nights, six years after the two of us had opened Harvelle's Roadhouse. I could still remember visiting the place when it had been "Larry's Bar", before Ellen had transformed it into a popular spot for college kids.

I recalled the moment when Ellen had proposed we open the Roadhouse. It had taken me by surprise, but only until she had explained her reasoning. Her late husband had always wanted to open a restaurant when the two retired. Ellen couldn't cook, but she could definitely bartend, so a bar it had been. But six years later and I could tell the late nights were finally getting to her.

The space was silent now, aside from the clinking of glasses as me and Ellen cleared the tables. Usually we'd spend these moments chatting about the drunken idiots we had the pleasure of meeting that night, but not this time. I was wiping down a table when I stole a glance at the woman, wondering if she remembered what day it was. I scolded myself soon afterwards for having any doubt. The slouch in her shoulders told me everything.

"You can go home, Ellen. I'll finish up here," I said as I flipped a chair and set it on one of the tables.

She gave me a look. "I'm not _that_ old, Jo. I can still make it through the night if I have to."

I smiled to myself. "No one's asking you to do that. And I'm not saying you're old either. It was busy tonight, and I know what day it is."

I didn't want to bring up the anniversary, but I knew it was the only way to get her to leave. Otherwise she would make up an endless array of excuses to stay and work. She'd end up rearranging the boxes of bottles in the backroom until the sun came up, all to help keep her mind off of what she would have to face today.

Ellen sighed as she threw the rag she had been clutching onto the polished bar top. "You're right," she agreed. "I should try to get some sleep."

Although we both knew she wouldn't be getting any sleep today, I sighed inwardly with relief. There was nothing I could do to help her through the anniversary of her husband's death, but I did prefer she spend it safe in the two-room apartment we shared instead of wasting one more minute in this empty place.

She kissed me goodbye on the cheek before she made her way out and into the chilly night. Our apartment building was just a block over, and although the path was down an alleyway, I wasn't worried. Ellen had been discharged as a cop years ago, but her hand-to-hand combat skills were still impressive. I had witnessed them firsthand on a few occasions. Just recently she had stopped a pissed-off biker who had made the mistake of trying to push her out of the way during a bar fight. She had even insisted I take self-defence classes myself, though I often skipped without her knowing. The bar kept her so busy it was a rare occurrence when she actually drove me to the classes herself.

I managed to lock up the bar an hour after closing, having mopped the floors and taken inventory. I shivered when I exited through the side door that led into the alley. It was still cold out these days, despite the approach of summer, but the bite in the air didn't stop me from enjoying the feeling of another hard-day's work complete. Being a bartender wasn't the most ideal of occupations, but it sure as hell beat my last profession. Serving alcohol was always better than serving myself.

I locked the door behind me and stuffed the keychain back in the pocket of my jean jacket. As I began my short walk home, my flat shoes scuffing against the pavement, I took solace in the fact that tomorrow would be a cakewalk next to what I had gone through tonight. Ash would be filling in for Ellen and-

A hand suddenly gripped my arm, yanking me backwards and causing my legs to shuffle quickly in order to keep my balance. The momentum swung me around, and another hand gripped my upper arm as I came face to face with a man darkened by the dim lighting in the alleyway. He was pushing me back, and in my panic I tried to recall how to react in a situation like this. I was suddenly regretting not having gone to more of my self-defence classes.

"Get off of me, you asshole!" I shouted. At least, I tried to, but before I could get a word out the guy shoved me against the alley wall and the air was pushed out of my lungs in a forced exhale. I felt a hand cover my mouth as my head was shoved back. I recovered my breath quickly, but as I tried to make noise, any noise, all that managed to come out was a muffled scream of outrage.

It quickly donned on me that even if I could scream loudly into the night, no one would be coming to save me. I was on my own. The realization wasn't much of a surprise; more of a thought I had forgotten and was simply recalling now. I used to always know that, before Ellen, when there had been no one else but myself to rely on. That's how it had always been, but lately I had forgotten. This asshole, who probably thought I would break down into a weeping mess, was simply reminding me.

I felt anger surge inside of me, replacing the fear, and I immediately attempted to draw my leg up and knee my attacker in the groin. I thanked my muscle memory for having at least remembered that piece of advice from my self-defence instructor, but the man was already too close to me. I couldn't move my limbs freely, except for my right arm which I was ineffectively beating against his side as I tried to shake my head free of his foul-smelling fingers.

"Little bitch," I heard him growl, his breath wafting into my face like a dense cloud of evaporated liquor. "Think you can insult anyone you like? I'll teach you to fuck with me." He laughed, though it sounded more like a sneer. "Or maybe I'll just teach you to _fuck_ me."

My arm was quickly getting tired, so I switched my tactic, reaching up to his face and trying to poke at his eyes. My reach was not long enough, my attempt only managing to annoy him. He released the pressure on my mouth and as I instinctively raised my head he slammed it back again, pain blooming from the back of my skull as lights flashed before me.

In my daze I didn't struggle as he turned me around and pushed me against the brick wall, the rough material scratching the bare skin of my face. He held me by the neck with one hand, the other reaching down for the zipper of my jeans.

"You're gonna enjoy me, baby," he whispered into my ear.

"Fuck you!" I screamed as I gathered enough of my wits. I threw an elbow back blindly, feeling it connect, and suddenly he was releasing me. I spun around and saw him backing away, his hands clutching his face as he yelled in pain. When he looked up at me the lower part of his face was dark with blood.

Good. I had broken his nose.

I didn't have much time to celebrate, however, because I realized now was my chance to run. I raced down the alley towards my apartment, my bedroom window visible a few stories up. I didn't get very far before I felt his hands on me again. He grabbed my hair this time, and before I could stop myself, my feet flew from beneath me and my back hit the pavement with a loud _slap_. The impact stole the breath from my lungs for a second time, and coupled with the blow to my head, I knew I wasn't going to be getting up anytime soon.

I told my body to move but it disobeyed. It was taking a timeout, my lungs burning as I tried to suck in air again, coughing on the short, rapid intakes. I rolled onto my side, expecting the man to try to straddle me, but after a time I realized he was no longer attacking me.

My breathing had slowed, my body shaking less now, and I finally managed to sit up and face the man. He was standing a few feet away, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. I wondered why he had stopped. Maybe he had just wanted to scare me.

Well, the motherfucker had succeeded.

But then I noticed the other man slumped at his feet, and as I returned my gaze to the face of the one standing, I realized he was not my assaulter. I suddenly recognized him, even through the veil of darkness. I crinkled my brow, narrowing my eyes as if that would clear them of their blurriness. "You…" I slurred. "You're supposed to be dead."

"Go home and call the police, Jo," the shadow said in a gruff tone. I could hear my heartbeat clearly, pain bursting through my head with each pulse, as I watched him walk back down the alley towards the bar. I briefly wondered if I should chase after him, but then he disappeared, blending into the shadows. When he was gone I found myself unsure if I had seen him at all.

There was a groan and I returned my attention to my attacker. I picked myself up off the pavement, teetering only slightly, and then walked slowly towards the douchebag. I gave him a good, hard kick, recognizing him as the idiot from the bar who had tried to grab my ass. I kicked him another few times, hoping to give him something else to complain about in the morning other than a hangover.

"You're lucky I'm not gonna call the cops on you, asshole," I said to the sniffling man.

But I knew that I had been the lucky one tonight. Or was that man's return more like a bad omen? I couldn't be sure. All I was certain of was that I had probably hit my head harder than I thought I had.

_He's not real, Jo,_ I told myself. _You didn't see him_.

But as I made my way home I had the horrible feeling that my eyes hadn't lied to me. I had seen a monster in the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

/

" _I think I made you up inside my head._ "

\- _Mad Girl's Love Song_ , Carol Anne McGowan

/

_Four years. The time had passed so quickly it was hard to believe that everything had happened here that long ago. Yet, at the same time, it felt like a lifetime had passed._

_Sam stood on the concrete, staring out at the water. It was dawn, the first rays of sunlight spilling out over the city, skimming the tops of the waves that lapped at the concrete below him. It was Sunday today, and Realton's port was empty. He had sneaked in without a hitch, though his hand still hurt where he had cut it on the metal wire lining the top of the fence._

_He had come here for a reason: to speak with Dean. Or Mercy, as most people called him. He knew it wasn't logical to believe he could speak with a dead man, but perhaps if..._ _Sam had never been very religious, but he liked to think that something came after a person's last breath. Maybe if he spoke the words aloud... Maybe somehow Dean would hear them._

_"Hey Dean," he said, but then felt foolish. He cleared his throat. "I, uh... I came here because I..."_

_He trailed off. What did he have to say? What had been the point of buying a plane ticket to New York City and missing a weekend with his girlfriend in California? Why was he standing on this port instead of visiting Ellen or Jo or Ash or his mother's grave?_

_"I'm not sure why I'm here, to tell you the truth." He watched a plastic bottle floating in the water, the object bobbing up and down. He wondered how long it had been floating in this river; if it would follow the same path his stepfather had. Would it wash up on shore in the same place John had, a few miles down the coast?_

_He shook his head, attempting to focus his thoughts. "I've never told anyone about you. Not even the FBI. Not everything, at least." He shoved his hands further into his pockets, fighting back the chill of the early morning. "Sometimes I think I made you up inside my head. That you weren't real. Maybe that's because I can't speak about you to anyone."_

_The half-sunken boat Dean had died upon had been dismantled and transported to a junk yard some time ago. Sam could still see it's red surface in his mind, though, where Dean had collapsed, torn through by a bullet._

_"It's taken me this long to figure you out, Dean. When I woke up in the hospital and Jo told me you were gone, I... I didn't believe it at first. And then she told me you weren't a good person. All the people around me seemed to think you had deserved to die. Honestly, there was a time I wanted to kill you myself, when I thought you were the one who murdered my mom. But... I never agreed with those people."_

_He sniffed, stomping his feet on the port to keep them warm. "I thought about it a lot, and I realized it's because I always thought you were a good person. Even when I saw you kill, you were still good. You weren't the one who killed my mom. You only hurt people who hurt others. Like Meg and... And Vince."_

_It had been a while since he had said those names. He didn't like recalling the people the names belonged to._

_"I thought that about you for a long time, but people kept saying you were bad. Jo told me you had done horrible things. I didn't want to believe them so I never watched the news or read the paper. I didn't want to know. But eventually... Eventually I gave in. They were speaking about John in class a few weeks ago, and then you came up. Jesus Christ... The things you did."_

_He shook his head, closing his eyes._

_"Dean, I-" He faltered. Taking a deep breath, he continued in a quieter voice. "I discovered you weren't a good person after all. You killed so many people._ Innocent _people. Women like my mom. Teenagers. Honest politicians. Lawyers." He let out a laugh that held no amusement. "I'm going to be a layer, you know that? I got accepted into Stanford Law School. Three more years and then-" He stopped himself. "Well, I guess I'm going to be devoting my life to locking up people like you."_

_There was the faint sound of a ship's horn. He recalled tackling his stepfather over the ledge of a broken ship, falling into the dirty, dark water below._

_"I know what it's like to kill someone. When they deserve it, pulling the trigger can seem so easy. But I don't understand how... How could you have killed someone who didn't deserve it? That's not who I thought you were."_

_He hunched his shoulders, the chill having reached his chest. Dean's last words to him echoed in his head._ _"_ _I wish I could have chosen a better ending"._ _He took his hands from his pockets and rolled up the left sleeve, staring at the tattoo inked into his wrist._

_"I wish you could have chosen a better ending too."_

_Sam guessed that's what he had come to say, because as soon as the words came tumbling out of his mouth he felt slightly lighter, like a heavy weight had been taken off of his shoulders._ _Then he pulled his sleeve back down and turned around, never looking back as he left the port._

/

"Congratulations, Sam." A hand slapped me on the back, the eighteenth one tonight, and I forced myself to smile.

"Thanks," I mumbled, taking a small sip of my champagne as the unknown classmate walked off to congratulate someone else. I thought I recognized his face from one of my classes, but I couldn't be sure. It was slightly disturbing that he knew who I was when I couldn't even place him in one department of my life.

I looked around the enormous hall, full of professors and graduates and their families. The students all looked different dressed up in their tuxedos and dresses, but there were a few familiar faces. I waved to a girl in a blue dress after realizing she was someone I knew. Then I sighed, trying to loosen the collar of my tuxedo as I glanced around the room again. I caught myself wondering how much longer I would have to stand here making chitchat with people, but quickly chastised myself. These were my fellow classmates and the men and women who had taught me everything I knew about law. I had spent the past seven years with them. I had loved it here.

_Then why am I so happy to be leaving California?_ The question popped into my head unexpectedly, but before I could answer it, or perhaps deny it, I recognized another familiar face in the sea of unknowns.

"Dude, we did it!" Luis shouted as he walked by a girl and her parents, causing the mom to jump in surprise. He didn't seem to notice the disturbance he had caused, a huge grin on his face as he came to stand next to me. Throwing an arm around my shoulders, he said, "Thank fuck, huh?"

I felt a genuine smile tug at my lips as I looked at the guy. He cleaned up well, his shoulders looking wider than usual in his tuxedo and his beard a slight dusting across his dark skin. I suddenly remembered him in his Halloween costume three years ago, dressed as a ghoul while congratulating me on my 'awesome LSAT victory'. Now we were both graduating from Stanford Law School and we were each dressed to the nines. It seemed we had finally made it.

Luis was taking a long sip of his champagne, probably wishing it was a beer, as he thoroughly scanned the crowd of female graduates milling about in dresses that dragged across the floor. "You already on the prowl, Luis?" I asked him, shaking my head in mock disapproval.

He gave me a sidelong glance. "Hey, just because you're gonna be stuck with the same woman for the rest of your life, doesn't mean you have to be jealous, Sam."

I laughed. "Jealous of _your_ love life? Please. I've heard more about it than I've cared to over the past years, and I can say with confidence that there is nothing about it I envy."

He laughed loudly, throwing his head back and garnering a few odd looks. I knew Luis didn't see the disapproving glances, and I also knew he wouldn't have cared if he did. "You know I'm joking, man." He clutched my shoulder firmly and I was happy he hadn't felt the urge to pat me on the back. "Jess is fantastic. Any man would give his _left nut_ to be with her for the rest of his life. Congratulations on the engagement, buddy."

"Thanks," I said, shaking the hand he offered.

"You gotta give me a shout when you're up and settled in New York, all right? I'll come visit you before the wedding if you're not too busy." He punched my shoulder. "Mr. Big Shot Lawyer, here."

I chuckled, shaking my head again. "I heard you got a job over in North Carolina."

He shrugged. "Nothing that great. I didn't have the same fantastic, mouth-watering grades as _someone_ we both know."

I pushed him away jokingly, knowing he had landed a good job and was just being humble. "Congratulations anyway."

He downed the rest of his champagne in one go and then gave me a wink before he sauntered off, a woman probably having caught his eye across the room. "I mean it, man," he called over his shoulder. "We've gotta hang out in New York before you're officially hitched. You need a planner for your bachelor's party, give me a call, all right?" I waved as I watched him disappear into the crowd.

Letting out another sigh, I leaned against the table behind me. Its top was covered by a spotless white tablecloth upon which sat dozens of fancy platters full of expensive cuisine. I felt my stomach rumble, but I had no interest in the food. This graduation party put me in a slightly sour mood. I supposed it was because the event marked the end of my college life. No more Stanford. No more law school. This was the end.

But that wasn't right. I had to keep reminding myself that this was also the beginning. It was the start of my career. I would soon be working at Turner & Elkins, one of the best law firms in the country. I had accomplished what I had set out to do, yet I still couldn't quite quench the feeling that I had only gone in a circle. In less than a week I was going to be back in New York City, the place I had spent the first eighteen years of my life. The place where-

I stopped my thought process. Lately memories had begun to reappear in my mind, the ones I had stored away years ago, and I couldn't let that happen now. I had made a promise to myself that Stanford was going to be the beginning of the second part of my life, and it had been. The memories of what had happened in New York, the people I had left behind there, had slipped to the back of my mind as my life had suddenly been filled with new faces and names and tests and assignments. They had resurfaced less and less over the years, until I stopped thinking of them altogether. But now that I was planning to permanently return to New York they seemed to be coming back, appearing at the least convenient times and filling my head with doubts about my return. It unnerved me.

Another familiar face appeared, and I felt a smile touch my lips as I forced myself to focus on the present. I sighed in relief as I snaked an arm around Jess' small waist, holding her close. She was just the height to fit perfectly against my body, and I was suddenly glad that she never wore high heels. After working a shift at the hospital, her feet were usually too tired to be put through that torture. Even so, she was stunning in her slip-ons and a long black dress.

"Hey sweetie," she said as she looked up at me. I handed her my champagne glass and she took a sip. "Congratulations on graduating top in your class."

"Thanks, though I think you're the only one here besides Luis who's said that to me and meant it."

She shook her head. "You lawyers and your competitiveness. I don't know how you handle it."

"You mean you nurses don't ever stab each other in the back?" I teased her.

"If we did we'd just have more bodies to patch up."

I laughed. "True, I guess."

"So, the food here any good?" She eyed the table of appetizers behind us.

"I wouldn't know, but I'm sure it's the finest cuisine on the western seaport."

She smiled as she gently squeezed my arm. "You really hate seafood, don't you?"

"I love Stanford and California, but they could really do with a little less shrimp and clams."

"Is that why we're going to New York? You prefer pizza and hot dogs over clams and shrimp?"

I knew she had asked it as a jest, but I pondered her question seriously. Why was I going back to New York? A small part of me argued it wasn't just because of the great job that awaited me there. New York was where I had grown up, the city I had escaped from, but now I was willingly returning to it. Seven years ago I hadn't planned on ever going back permanently.

"Hey, you're gonna love the pizza there," I replied, trying to keep my voice light despite the heavy thoughts running through my mind. "I guarantee you'll pack on a few pounds in the first month."

She snuggled against my side, handing the champagne glass back to me. "I sure hope not. But I _am_ really excited to move there. At first I was a little iffy about it all, but I know how hard you worked to get the position at Turner  & Elkins, and there is no doubt in my mind that you deserve the job. You're going to make an excellent lawyer."

I kissed the top of her head. "And hopefully an excellent husband, right?"

She grinned, looking up at me. "I have no doubt you're going to make the _perfect_ husband."

I squeezed her gently as I resumed watching my classmates. This would probably be the last time I saw them all.

"Are you going to miss it?" I heard Jess ask, mirroring my thoughts.

I was about to give the obvious answer, that of course I would, but I stopped myself. Although I had gone to every class, participated in every group project, taken part in numerous extracurricular activities, and interned at several places of work, all of these people were still strangers to me. Yes, many I would call associates, people I could get a drink with and whose favourite basketball teams I knew because we had held several casual conversations on the topic, but none of them knew me.

They didn't know that my stepfather had been John Winchester, a major crime lord in the East. They had no clue that he had once sent a man to assassinate me or that I had caused his death after discovering he had ordered my mom to be killed. Not one of them was aware that his son, Dean Winchester, a man who had killed dozens of innocent people, had saved my life, and that he had died because of me as well. There was not a single soul here who knew my past.

I stopped myself again, wondering why these thoughts were coming to my mind unbidden. But I couldn't help but realize that it was all true. Not even Jess, my fiancée, knew everything about me. She saw the studious, hard-working graduate who hates seafood and believes in the power of the law. She could never know that I had once considered killing a woman in cold blood after she had shot my best friend, or that I felt sympathetic towards a man who had ended up being a cold murderer.

"I don't know," I finally said, responding to her question. It was the truth.

Two hours later we were back in the apartment we shared. The place was full of boxes packed with our belongings, ready to be shipped to New York in a couple of days. Only the furniture remained in place, since we intended to leave it all behind.

"Shirley asked me who would be coming from your side of the family, and I had to tell her I didn't know," Jess said as she took out her earrings in front of the bedroom vanity. "She seemed shocked that I hadn't met any of your family yet."

"Well isn't Shirley marrying Mark Feebes?" I tugged the bowtie from my neck, throwing it onto the bed. "That guy's entire family can be looked up on Wikipedia."

"That's not the point, Sam," she said, and I recognized that tone in her voice. Lately she had been using it a lot, especially when we discussed our upcoming wedding.

"You don't want to hear about my family, Jess. We're not exactly the Bradys." I was trying to lighten the mood, but it was clear that I was failing when she didn't smile.

"There's just so much I don't know about you," she mumbled, looking down at her hands, her long fingers clasped around each other.

"What do you want to know?" I asked, dreading the conversation I knew was about to take place but knowing I couldn't avoid it.

"You never talk about your family." She looked up at me. "Are your parents still alive? Where did you grow up?"

"In New York," I said curtly. "I told you that." I was always annoyed by her bouts of probing, but I didn't want to start a fight with her now. "I don't understand what the problem is, Jessica."

"The problem is your answers are always so vague. Yes, you grew up in New York, but where in the city? In an apartment? A house? With both of your parents? Do you have any siblings?" She sighed, frustrated. "Why don't you talk to me?"

I looked away angrily. "We've discussed this before. I told you that I wanted to leave my past behind me. That I didn't want to discuss it."

"I know that, Sam, and I respect that. But how can you expect me to marry you if I don't know these basic things? What am I supposed to tell my family and friends when they ask me about you? Am I supposed to just say that I don't know? That I barely know anything about my husband?"

I knew that she was right, but she didn't understand what she was demanding of me. I had never told Jessica about my past because it was something I didn't want to affect my future. Yes, I would never be able to completely forget it – I had accepted that – but that didn't mean that others had to know about it. I trusted Jess, but this was not a trust issue. It was my incapability of disregarding the past when it was clear in my present. Telling Jess would change things, and I was afraid it wouldn't be for the better. It would be like breaking open a dam and letting in everything I had spent so much effort keeping back up to this point.

_Then why are you going back to New York_? The question appeared in my mind again but I brushed it aside.

I stood up and grabbed Jess' hands, her skin soft and warm against my palms. I made sure to look her in the eyes as I selected my next words carefully. "Maybe one day I will be able to tell you, but today is not that time. I want you to understand, though, that I only hide my past because I want to make a future with you."

"Why?"she whispered. "What can be so horrible that…?" She trailed off as she shook her head. "Never mind. I understand, Sam, and I love you." She stood on her tippy toes as she wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me. As our lips parted, she said, "But just tell me _one_ thing."

"What?"I asked.

She looked at me strangely, her arms still wrapped around my neck. "Why is it that you never wear shoelaces?"

I laughed. "I'm a lawyer, Jess. Since when do lawyers go to work with runners?"

She shook her head, a crease forming between her eyes. "No, even when you exercise you never wear runners. You always insist on buying shoes with Velcro or slip-ons. I always found it strange."

I thought about it and realized that she was right. It always unsettled me when I saw laces on shoes. For a moment a past memory bubbled to the surface of my mind, an image of tattered shoelaces, but I quickly shoved it back down, forcing a smile. "I guess I'm just lazy," I drawled, pressing my forehead against hers and slowly pushing her back towards the bed.

She punched my shoulder playfully but didn't resist as we fell onto the covers. "So _that's_ why you always leave the apartment when there's chores to be done," she said between kisses.

My lips skimmed across her jaw line. "Guilty…"

Then her neck. "As…"

I reached a hand beneath her dress and heard her gasp. "Charged."


	3. Chapter 3

/

" _And I won't tell my mother._

_It's better she don't know._

_And he won't tell his folks,_

_'Cause they're already ghosts._ "

\- _Run_ , Daughter

/

"Ellen?"

I placed the tips of my fingers against the tender spot on the back of my skull. It was safe to wince when Ellen wasn't looking. It had been almost a week since my attack, but my head still hurt.

"Yeah, hun?" Ellen asked, clearly distracted. She was spreading some sort of brown glaze on several pieces of chicken, following the brush stroke movements the chef made on TV.

I had decided not to tell her about the other night. I didn't need her worrying for me anymore than she already did. Calling the police had never been an option either. Police officers at the door would only garner questions from Ellen, and there was no such thing as doing it discreetly. I knew she still kept in touch with many of the officers she had once worked alongside. Word would eventually get around to her, even if I went to the station to make the report.

Then there was the other problem. How would I explain how I had fought off my attacker? Yeah, he was drunk, and yes, I had taken a few self defense classes, but the guy had easily had a hundred pounds on me. If I were to explain what had _really_ happened, well…

"You were there that night, weren't you?" I heard myself ask before I could think the question through. "You saw the body."

"What body?" Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.

I leaned back in the armchair I sat in, my body remaining tense. The topic I was bringing up was one we had barely spoken about since Sam left. "Dean's body. You saw him when he was... dead, right?"

Ellen's hand halted as the chef continued to talk, his deep voice the only sound in the room. It was a long moment before she turned around, giving me her full attention. "Why would you ask such a thing, Jo?" Her voice sounded cold and I regretted having posed the question. I ducked my head down, examining my toenails. I had painted them bright blue again, the first time in a long time.

"I was just wondering," I lied. "I mean, there was never a funeral and-"

"Yes, I saw his body. He was dead. He died that night along with John Winchester." She turned her back and began applying the glaze again, though this time it was with less grace, the brush practically slicing into the chicken breasts. "Now, no more discussions on that topic, all right? Just forget about that boy and his father."

I nodded even though she couldn't see me, her eyes focused on the television screen again. The chef was sprinkling some sort of spice now, but Ellen was making no move to follow his directions. When I left the room to brush my teeth a few minutes later, she was still applying the same layer of glaze, her shoulders stiff.

I spent the rest of the evening researching in my room. I knew Ellen wouldn't be able to give me any answers, but it was possible I could find something on the internet. I wasn't exactly sure what I was looking for - maybe something that could confirm what I had seen that night - but I couldn't sit around any longer. All week the incident in the alley had been on my mind. It took up about as much space in my thoughts as Sam's upcoming return.

Sam... Did Sam know Dean was alive? How would he react to news like that? He hadn't talked about Dean much before he had left for Stanford. I wondered if he still thought of him.

It had been a long time since I had looked up John Winchester. He had a whole page on Wikipedia dedicated to him, including a list of deaths that had been connected to his crime organization. Sam's mother was among the deceased, and I thought back to her latest death anniversary. I had gone to where she was buried, just like I did every year, and once again there had been a bundle of flowers lying next to her tombstone. I had never known the woman - I only went on the off-chance that Sam would be there - but I had always wondered who visited her. Once I had gone super early in the morning, arriving before the cemetery was open, but the bouquet was there before I arrived. It had snowed the night before, but the flowers were untouched. Whoever had placed them there hadn't been a normal visitor.

Dean didn't have a separate wiki page, only a small mention in John's. There was a surprisingly small amount of information about him, and no picture. It stated that he was best known by the title 'The Angel of Mercy', and according to whoever wrote this particular section, he had died the same night John had. Before then, he had apparently worked for his father, taking out whoever stood in the mob boss' way whether it was man, woman, young, or old. It didn't say why he had done it, or when his first assassination had occurred, although it was speculated that he had started at a young age.

Listed on the page were several assassinations that had been directly linked to Dean, including the murders of a well-known journalist and the NYPD Chief of Department, plus a whole lot of other ones that were never proven but assumed to be his doing. After John's death a large number of witnesses had slowly come out of the woodwork, revealing just how far the rabbit hole went.

I recalled the image of Dean in the alleyway, standing over the slumped body of my attacker. _"Go home and call the police, Jo."_

I couldn't help but wonder why he had helped me. Why had he been there? Had it really been him? None of the information I gathered could answer my questions, and when I got tired of reading about assassinations and John's corrupt business I decided to move onto other things. I was on a page about some serial killer named H. H. Holmes when there was a knock on my door and Ellen appeared in the frame.

"I'm going to head to the bar now. If you need anything, call me on my cell, all right? I have it on vibrate."

I nodded my head, wondering if she was still upset about my earlier question. If she was, she didn't show it.

It was midnight when I finally decided to close my eyes and sleep. I had a strange dream. I saw Sam, teenage Sam, riding a swing at the fair. He didn't look very happy about it, his face tinged with green. I was standing by the railing, watching him, calling out that he should smile more. The ride seemed to go on forever, around and around and around. Someone came to stand next to me, but I didn't turn my head to look at the stranger.

"He's going to throw up," a male's voice said.

I laughed. "Yeah, probably. But he's the one who decided to go on the ride."

"Should I put him out of his misery?"

From the corner of my eye I saw the stranger reach his arm out, and I realized he held a gun in his hand. It was pointed upwards, aiming at Sam. I spun my head around, looking at the man in horror.

"Dean? What are you doing? Stop it!"

But he didn't seem to hear me and I couldn't move my body to stop him. I was glued to the spot I stood on.

"Don't worry, Sam," he said to himself, looking sad. "I won't miss."

"No!" I screamed, but then Dean was folding his arm in, the gun's barrel positioned under his chin and pointing up at his own head. I shut my eyes and-

I was awoken by a cold breeze. I was lying on my back, my heart hammering in my chest as I realized I had kicked the blankets to the end of the bed. I wondered what my dream meant, but quickly gave up on deciphering it. Dreams were just dreams. They meant nothing.

My window was open, but I knew for certain it had been closed when I had been skimming my computer screen. I consoled myself by picturing Ellen entering my room and cranking the window open - she was always telling me my room was too stuffy - but when I glanced at my clock I realized it was too early for her to be back from the bar.

My head was still groggy with sleep but I immediately sat up, scanning my room for an intruder, my heart beating faster. I briefly wondered if I should call Ellen, but I realized I had left my cell phone charging in the kitchen and cursed.

When it was clear there was no one else in the room, I got up and tiptoed to my bedroom door. Was the intruder in the kitchen? Had they already left? Were they foraging through Ellen's limited jewelry stock at this very moment? I placed my hand on the doorknob, running through my head the different scenarios that awaited me on the opposite side. Meanwhile, my heart continued to thud in my chest, alarms going off in my head.

There was a noise behind me, the floorboard by the foot of my bed that always creaked when someone stepped on it, and I spun around. I tried to hit the man who was suddenly standing in my room, but he grabbed my wrists and forced me back. As I slammed into the door I recalled the night in the alley and began screaming bloody murder, hoping that the neighbours would be able to hear me this time.

A hand covered my mouth. "Jo. Jo, it's okay. It's me. Jo, I'm not going to hurt you." At first I continued to struggle, not caring what the asshole had to say, but then the gruff voice nicked something in the back of my mind and I realized I recognized who it belonged to. It was the voice from my dream.

I felt my limbs go numb, my struggle ending abruptly. Although I knew I was staring directly at his face, he was too close and the shadows too dark for me to make out his features. But I knew who he was.

"I'm going to remove my hand and step back very slowly, okay? Don't scream or run." He waited for a moment, as if to see if I would object, but then I felt the rough palm on my lips lift and the rustling of clothes as he shifted back. The dim light from the window slowly spilled onto his face, revealing his strong jaw, the straight line of his nose, his pouty lips, spikes of his dirty blonde hair, and lastly, the hazel of his irises. Aside from a few new lines at the corners of his eyes and running along his brow, he looked exactly the same.

"Dean," I breathed, not quite believing he was actually standing before me.

"Hey, Jo. It's been a while."

I felt myself sway on my feet. I had suspected he was still alive since the night I was attacked in the alley, but to have him standing before me, in my bedroom, was too unbelievable. "How-" I started, but I didn't know how to finish the sentence. "I mean, you were…"

_Dead_. The word easily appeared in my mind, but I found I couldn't say it out loud. "You shouldn't be here," I whispered instead, the words directed less towards him and more towards the laws of nature.

His reply was a smirk. "Why? I'm not allowed to come visit an old friend?"

He lowered himself onto the edge of my bed, facing the open window. I watched him, unable to come up with anything else to say. I had only known Dean for a little while, when Sam had brought him to the youth center all those years ago, claiming the man had saved his life. He had been like a heroic character straight out of a soap opera, with his amnesia and life-saving tendencies. I had liked him well enough, but now I recalled who he really was; what the papers had said about him; the stories about John that he had obviously been connected to in so many ways. My shock soon mingled with cold fear, but I was determined not to let the emotion show.

Dean did not seem to be aware of my inner struggles. He had turned his attention to my bedside table, reaching over to pluck a picture frame from its top. I remained silent as I watched him study it. I couldn't see the picture from where I stood, but I had looked upon it enough times to be able to recreate the image in my mind. I recalled it now, seeing the three of us - me, Ash, and Sam - smiling as we sat by a tree in Central Park, frisbee players in the background. I was in the middle with the two boys beside me, all of us eight years younger. Still kids.

"How is he?" Dean asked, and I didn't have to confirm it to know who he was talking about.

I still had questions for Dean, but I settled on answering his for now. "I don't really know," I replied truthfully. "We haven't talked much, but he seems to be doing fine. Apparently he graduated top in his class at Stanford Law School. Got amazing on his Bar." I realized I was rambling. I cleared my throat. "He's returning to the city tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, huh?" He didn't sound surprised. He was clearly not focusing on the picture or on my words. It seemed he was lost in a memory, his eyes focusing on another image before him only he could see, his words faint.

Looking at him now, I felt my fear begin to ebb. He didn't look like a murderer. In fact, the soft glow of the moonlight made his expression look almost gentle. I found it hard to imagine he was someone who was capable of killing. Come to think of it, I had never witnessed him hurt anyone unless for good reason. He had covered me and Sam that time we had been shot at in the shelter, and he had stopped Meg after she had tried to kill me. The only times I had seen him use violence was when he was protecting someone.

My initial panic gone, I moved to lean on the edge of my dresser, suddenly finding the cool air rushing in from the window appealing. What I knew of Dean personally said one thing, but what others told about him painted a completely different picture. I wasn't sure which one to believe, but I wasn't going to take any chances. Crossing my arms over my chest, I cleared my throat again, hoping to sound normal. "So… are you going to explain things to me or not?"

His head snapped up, as if my voice had pulled him from whatever memory he had been reliving, and then he was placing the picture back in its spot on my bedside table. "Explain what?"

"You know what I'm talking about," I said in annoyance. I was not in the mood to play games. Not when I had just been scared out of my wits for the second time in a week. "Why are you here? How is it possible?"

"You mean why am I not dead?" He grinned up at me. "How do you know I'm not a ghost?"

I rolled my eyes, realizing I wasn't going to be able to get a straight answer out of him no matter how hard I tried.

"Then why are you _here_? In my room? Does Sam know you're-"

He cut me off quickly, his voice losing its playfulness. "Sam doesn't know anything, and that's how it's going to stay."

"You mean you're not going to tell him you're alive?" I asked, incredulous. I thought Sam would have been the first to know of Dean's existence. "He thinks you're _dead_ , Dean. When you died- When you- Whatever the hell happened to you, he was a mess. You should have seen him."

"The kid's tough," he said matter-of-factly. "He seems recovered now. Even has himself a pretty little fiancée."

I scoffed. "So you've been keeping tabs on him."

The frown on his face showed that he had not intended that one to slip out. "I know a little."

"Only a little? Then do you want to know more? Her name is Jessica Lee Moore and she's a sweet little blonde from Los Angeles. She studied at Stanford School of Medicine where she met Sam four years ago and is now planning to work as a trauma nurse at the New York-Presbyterian Hospital. Sam proposed to her eight months ago, and they're planning to have their wedding in August in a big old church downtown. I got a handwritten invitation, and yes, her cursive writing is spectacular."

"You done?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I just thought you should now."

"Yeah, thanks." He got up and leaned against the window frame, looking out across the roof of a warehouse. Next to the building was the alley that led to Harvelle's Roadhouse.

I wanted to ask him why he had helped me that night, but the words wouldn't come. Instead I said, "Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"All the things the newspapers said. All the things you've done." He glanced at me, his face pale in the moonlight. It made his expression look cold now.

As silence spread between us I couldn't tell what he was thinking and I suddenly regretted bringing his past up. I didn't really know this man. I didn't know why he was here or who he was working for or if he perhaps really _was_ a ghost. He had never hurt me, but that was before. That was when he had only been Dean, a boy with amnesia; before he had remembered his other name, Mercy. I briefly pondered how his two names seemed to belong to two different people. I didn't know who was standing before me right now: Dean or Mercy.

"They said you were John Winchester's son," I continued, because the silence in the room needed to be filled and there was no taking my words back. "That you used to kill people for him. Is that true?"

"Yes."

I felt myself swallow even though my mouth had gone dry. "Did you kill everyone he ordered you to?"

He returned his gaze to the window. "Almost everyone."

"So you're a murderer."

His reply came slower this time. "Yes."

I felt a shiver run through me that was not caused by the cool breeze entering my room. This was not Dean, but I wasn't sure if it was Mercy either. "Then I want you to leave."

He gave no reaction that he had heard my request, standing motionless by the window. I watched as the wind tussled his clothes, but then he sniffed and gave me a small smirk. "Don't tell Sam about me, all right? I think it would be better if he didn't know."

I nodded, agreeing. Then he was climbing out of the window and onto the fire escape. "Wait," I heard myself say. He poked his head back through the window. "What…" How was I supposed to ask him? "Why me? Why come see me?"

He shrugged. "I wanted to check up on you. See if things were all right since the other night, when you…" He trailed off. "You didn't call the police like I asked you to."

"I didn't want Ellen involved."

He nodded, understanding. "Say hi to her for me, would you?"

"Ellen? You want her to know you're not six feet under the ground?"

He smiled. "Oh, Ellen's known that for years." And then he was gone, disappearing down the fire escape, leaving nothing behind but a strange feeling in my chest.


	4. Chapter 4

/

_"I_ _heard you were trouble and you heard I was trouble._ "

\- _Pull Me Down_ , Mikky Ekko

/

The doors were a few meters away. I watched as they periodically slid open, allowing passengers to exit the terminal, giving small glimpses of the crowd that stood on the other side. I knew most of them were waiting for someone else, perhaps a cousin or a daughter or a son-in-law, but there would be three people watching for me; two I hadn't seen in seven years, and the other in five. I couldn't help but wonder if they would act the same way they had before, or look similar to how I remembered them. What would have changed? How much had I changed? Would it matter?

I realized I was gripping the handle of my suitcase much too tightly. Releasing it, I looked for Jessica, shaking my hands out as if that would cast out the nervous tension I felt. I spotted Jess returning from the washroom and forced a smile as she took my hand, discreetly wiping my palm on my pant leg beforehand.

"You ready?" she asked.

"Yep," I lied.

Pulling our suitcases behind us, we walked towards the exit. There was a family ahead of us, pushing a cart with a tower of bags piled on top, and as they triggered the motion detector and the doors slid open, I briefly spotted a female teenager with blonde hair in the crowd. An image flashed quickly through my mind; an image of Jo slumped against a broken window, her abdomen covered in blood and her skin pale.

I fought the impulse to squeeze Jess' hand tighter, but then the doors were opening for us and we were visible to the entire crowd. Dozens of pairs of eyes focused on us and then slid past, returning to the closing doors that would soon reveal the people they had come here for. Three pairs remained, however, and I felt a sudden and unexpected rush of ease as I met their stares.

I had been nervous for no reason. Seven years may have altered their appearances slightly, forming wrinkles where there weren't any before, but these were the people who had taken care of me when I needed it the most. This was... my family.

Ellen had a motherly smile planted on her lips, her eyes slightly glossy as she waved at me. I returned the gesture, but I kept moving forward, knowing I had to bypass the crowd before I could meet them. Ash sported a grin as he lazily saluted me, disappearing into the crowd along with Ellen as they made their way to the back where they could greet me properly. My head turned as I walked by the spot they had been waiting, because Jo was still standing there, her eyes focused solely on me. I couldn't help but notice that she had become even prettier than she was before, for she was a young woman now. I also noted that she wasn't smiling. She was looking at me with what seemed like indecision, but before I could confirm the emotion she was turning away.

Jess and I quickly made it around the crowd and came to a stop in front of the three. I looked at the trio, my fingers still entwined with Jess', and couldn't help but smile. Seven years was a long time, but I still had a family here. It was a nice thought.

For a moment we said nothing, simply soaking in the moment, but then Ellen laughed. "Oh, come here, Sam." She reached her arms out and I couldn't help but grin as I hugged the woman. I had to bend down a little to make it work. "I can't believe how tall you've gotten," she said as she released me.

"Agreed. How tall are you now, Sam?" Ash asked as he clapped me on the back. I had been somewhat surprised to discover his hairstyle still remained the same. He had once told me he would never let go of the mullet, but I hadn't actually taken him seriously back then.

"Six foot four," I replied, and upon seeing the surprised look on his face I recalled that I couldn't quite believe it myself.

"It's strange to think Sam was once short," I heard Jess say behind me, her voice shy but strong. "I've only known him when he was the looming tower he is now."

Ellen smiled warmly at her. "And who is this lovely lady by your side, Sam?"

I turned to face Jess, who had been waiting patiently all this time. She was returning Ellen's smile as I gently took her arm and looked back towards the three. "Um, everyone. I'd like you all to meet my fiancée, Jessica Moore."

Ellen was the first to introduce herself. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she said as she reached a hand out. "I'm Ellen."

"And I'm Ash." Jess shook his hand too, and I was impressed that she didn't show any amusement or surprise at his hairstyle.

Jo's turn was next, but as the silence grew between us all I realized she wasn't going to make the introduction herself. She was standing with her arms crossed over her chest, a wary look on her face. It wasn't quite a scowl, but it was close enough. I realized she hadn't smiled once since we had arrived.

"And this is Jo," I quickly said, gesturing to the girl. "She can be a little... prickly."

Now Jo scowled, but I was grateful that the expression was directed towards me and not my fiancée.

Jess reached out her hand, her smile never faltering. "It's nice to meet you, Jo. Sam's told me a little about you. I hope we can get to know each other better."

A moment passed and I was afraid that Jo would remain still, but then Ellen was nudging her forward, a little strongly. I almost sighed in relief as she finally reached her own hand out. The two women shook, but Jo's attention was on Jess' left hand and the sparkling engagement ring she wore. When she raised her eyes again she wore an obvious fake smile. "It's nice to meet you too, though I didn't expect you to be so... Blonde."

I heaved a long sigh. "Jo, lay off, would you?" I would have been more annoyed if it wasn't for the fact that I hadn't seen her in years. Some things about Jo obviously hadn't changed at all, and somehow it was comforting to see that pissed off look she used to get when girls would flirt with me. I couldn't hide a grin as I spread my arms wide. "Can _I_ at least get a proper hello?"

The girl's guarded expression seemed to suddenly crumble as she walked into my embrace, the top of her head barely reaching my chest now. Her arms came around my waist and squeezed so tightly I was surprised such a tiny thing could hold so much power. Then I was hugging her back, the familiar smell of cherries reaching my nose.

"So, whady'all say we go and get you guys settled in your place?" Ellen's voice interrupted. "I'm sure you're tired from your trip."

Jo finally let me go as she stepped back, but she still didn't look happy. I wondered what was wrong. I may have barely spoken to the girl in years, but I could still tell when something was bothering her. She always got that crease between her eyes. I knew she had once had a crush on me, but that had been seven years ago. Even if she was jealous of Jessica, there was no reason for her to be this moody.

"Good idea," my fiancée said. "Maybe we can all get a bite to eat as well. I'm starved." I smiled again, figuring Jo's strange mood was probably unrelated to anything that had to do with me or Jess or our arrival in New York City. There could be a million possible reasons why she was behaving the way she was now, from a bad breakup to a failed job interview. I would leave it alone for now.

As everyone turned to leave, Ellen already starting up a conversation with Jessica and Ash offering to take her bag, I suddenly got the strange feeling that someone was watching me. I glanced around, people moving everywhere. A large woman in high heels wobbled by on my right. A bald man in a business suit squeezed past behind me. My head swiveled to my left. The layout of the airport changed about ten meters away, the floor rising a few feet. Stairs led up to the raised portion, and two large pillars stuck up on either side of the wide space. It would be a perfect vantage point for someone to watch from.

_Is there someone there?_ I asked myself. _Is there someone watching me?_

But then I felt silly. John was dead and if someone held a grudge against me for having killed him they would have found me a long time ago. There was no one after me. There was no one there. I knew I was being paranoid. But still, I found I couldn't stop my eyes from scanning the area. It was only when I felt a hand on my arm that I looked away.

"Sam, what's wrong?" It was Jo. I looked past her and realized that everyone was waiting for me.

I shook my head. "Nothing. It's nothing," I muttered. "I was just thinking how good it is to be back in New York."

Jo didn't seem to believe my lie, but she didn't say anything further. Then we were catching up with the others and heading out to the parking lot, the strange feeling I had felt being pushed to the back of my mind as everyone discussed what they wanted to eat. We eventually agreed on Thai.

/

There was no way he saw me, but my chest stilled as his face turned in my direction. His eyes were scanning the crowd as if he sensed someone watching him. I immediately tugged down the baseball cap I was wearing, my shoulders hunching a little more as I leaned against one of the massive pillars spread throughout the airport. He wouldn't see me. Even if he did, he wouldn't recognize me. There was no way. He thought I was dead. You don't see dead people in airports, leaning against pillars wearing baseball caps for a team they don't care for. Then again, you don't see boys returning to the city where their moms were killed by their crime lord stepfathers, walking through the terminal gate as fully grown men, dressed in tailored suits and shiny leather shoes.

A lot of things didn't make sense. I knew that both me and Sam being here in New York City, only a few meters separating us, was one of those things. Me being here made the least sense of all, but even so I couldn't help but watch the guy out of the corner of my eye as I pretended to play with my cell phone.

Sam was eventually distracted by Jo as the girl grabbed his arm, and I let myself relax a little. I put my cell phone away and stood up straight. Had it been shock I had felt when he had walked through those doors? Is that what had encased my mind, rendering my limbs useless and unable to move? Even when a man had bumped into me, apologizing as he went on his way, I had been completely fixated on the little group huddled among the rest of the happily reunited down by the gate. There was Jo and Ellen and Ash - I had watched them for awhile before the plane had arrived - and then Sam and his fiancée had joined them.

Sam's fiancée... Jessica. I hadn't looked at her for long, although she had struck me as some sort of actress, dressed in a green and blue summer dress, her shoes white, her face pretty and smiling. Always smiling. I told myself her and Sam looked good together. They looked like a happy couple. They were living together and had been for a few years. They were serious. Soon they would be newlyweds. They were- They... They. _They_.

As the group had talked and introductions has been made I had taken the time to observe Sam more closely. The kid had filled out over the years. He was taller now, probably standing a few inches above myself, and he had lost his teenage lankiness. Beneath his suit I could tell he was packing some muscle, and the way he moved was with powerful, sure movements. He never once stumbled or hesitated or appeared unsure of himself. He was… Well, he was all grown up now, wasn't he?

That's when Sam had looked in my direction. When I was sure he hadn't noticed me, I followed the group as they made their way out of the airport, dodging anxious travelers and piles of luggage while keeping my eyes on the five of them the entire time. I saw when Sam put a hand against his fiancée's back as a tourist cut them off, pulling her closer to him. I watched as he smiled at Ellen when she said something. I looked on as he laughed, his head falling back and his hair falling away from his face. He still looked the same. Maybe older, but the same. My memory had not warped him in any way.

I trailed them all the way into the parking lot. They were piling into Ellen's van when my cell phone rang. I reached into my pocket, placing the device by my ear while I watched Sam squish into his seat, his long legs folding at an awkward angle so that he would fit. I would have chuckled if it wasn't for the serious nature of the call.

"This is Dean."

"A tip was called in last night concerning your drop off tomorrow," the familiar accented voice said from the other side. "Might wanna give your boys a heads up."

"Thanks." There was a pause that shouldn't have been there. "Anything else?" I asked warily.

"Come pay me a visit."

I held back a sigh. "I'll be there soon." The van was already leaving the parking lot of LaGuardia airport as I hung up. I watched as it halted at a stop sign and then took a right turn onto a road that would lead to the highway.

Sam was back in town, but that didn't change everything. There was still work to be done, and no one but me to carry it out. Properly, that is. There was only so much you could leave to lesser minds.

_Not everything has changed_ , I reminded myself again.

Then I was getting into my own car, a black 1967 Chevy Impala I had saved from the junkyard a few years back. It took me thirty-five minutes before I was pulling into a driveway a block away from 1 Police Plaza, the NYPD headquarters. Then it was a three minute walk and a few seconds at a back door before I was climbing a closed stairwell. The Chief of Department had taped off the set of stairs for "repair work", but really it was a ruse so that people like me could make visits unnoticed and never bothered. The Chief of Department didn't have the luxury of being able to meet with everyone he needed to outside of the NYPD, so he had found a way to allow us to come to him.

He was sitting behind his desk when I opened the door without knocking. He looked like he was expecting me, his white uniform perfectly ironed and his light brown hair in neat array. "Took you a little longer than expected," he said.

I shrugged. "Didn't know I was being timed."

"I'm a very busy man, Dean. I don't like to be kept waiting. And you're lucky I'm meeting with you at all. This shipment-"

"Is important," I cut him off. "I know. But it's more important to you than it is to me, so don't act all high and mighty, _Chief_."

He looked like he wanted to say something more, but then thought better of it. His sinister appearance seemed to melt as he stood up, a smile reaching his lips. "Cheeky bastard, like always, I see."

I scoffed, turning my attention to the shelves of books and foreign artifacts that lined one of the office's walls. The miniature skeleton of a dinosaur stood next to an old, tattered bible, and I tried to recall its species name. "I'm guessing there's an important reason you called me here, Balth."

"Look, Dean, I'm one of the few people who knew you before John died," Balth said as he rounded his desk. "I know you don't go by your old nickname anymore, but do you really think you're going to get anything done this way?"

"What way?" I asked in mock ignorance as I poked the miniature dinosaur. The jaw bone came loose and bounced across the shelf.

"Careful with that," he scolded. "It took me ages to piece that thing together." He shooed me out of the way and I stepped aside as he endeavored to complete the skeleton again. "And don't act stupid. You know what I'm talking about."

"I do, and I don't think there's a problem with the way I've been doing things."

He turned his head to stare at me, his blue eyes steely. "Not a problem? This is the third information leak this year. You've got rats in your operation, Dean. And I don't mean your average sewer dwellers, because you and I both know that those are the only kind of creatures we can use to run operations like ours. I mean the crafty ones. The rats that climb up from the sewer looking for something better in the streets. The ones that snitch."

"I'm already searching for the one who called in the tip. I'll have him by sundown."

"And then what? What are you going to do to him?"

I hesitated, not because I was unsure, but because I knew my answer was not the one Balth wanted. The guy must have noticed my hesitation, because he immediately shook his head and looked away.

"You're getting soft, Dean."

I shrugged. "I used to be called 'Mercy'. I thought it was about time to live up to the name, you know?" It was a joke, but Balth didn't laugh. The fossil was whole again and now he walked back to his desk where he slowly lowered himself into his arm chair.

"You _used_ to be called Mercy. Not anymore, according to you. If you let one rat off, there are going to be others that think they can make it out of the sewers too. You know that. You watched your father run his business. You saw what he did to people who betrayed him."

"Yeah, he sent _me_ after them."

"Exactly."

I shook my head. "I'm done killing, Balth. I don't want to do it anymore."

He didn't say anything, but I could tell he was judging how serious I was by the way he was staring. He was analyzing me, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. "How do you expect to run your business if you can't even squash a fucking rat?"

I shrugged. "It's been running fine the past few years, hasn't it?"

"That's only thanks to your reputation. But The Angel of Mercy is becoming more myth than reality now. He is being _forgotten_. He no longer threatens people, and now the rats think they have a better chance of not being squashed."

I knew he was right, but what was I supposed to do? Killing wasn't the same anymore. I had done it in the past because John had ordered me to. It was all I had known. I pointed the gun and I pulled the trigger because that was what I had been taught to do; what I was good at. But over the past several years I had discovered I was good at other things too. I no longer had to kill to survive. There were other things...

"What the fuck happened to you, Dean?" Balth asked, and I felt as if his eyes were piercing through my skull, trying to read my thoughts. "You used to kill without a second thought. It didn't even matter who; whether they were innocent or not. Now you can't even shoot a fucking criminal in the head? Don't tell me you've grown a conscience."

"You should feel lucky I'm not shooting criminals, Balth." I gave him a look to get my point across. "Last time I checked you were one of the biggest criminals in the city."

He held his arms out as if to draw attention to our surroundings. "And also Chief of Department. You couldn't touch me even if you tried."

I smirked. "Don't be so sure. I've done it once before." This was the kind of banter we often exchanged, but there was always the tiniest bit of seriousness in what we said. Balth smiled too, as if he was challenging me to make a move, but then he was waving his hand to shoo me out. "Call me when you've dealt with the snitch. I don't care how you do it, just don't let it happen again."

I nodded before turning around and strolling out of the room. For the briefest of moments a memory flickered in my mind. I saw Sam standing on a concrete port, speaking aloud to a dead man, telling him he was nothing but a killer. But then I was shaking my head and making my way down the stairwell. I had a rat to find.

_Not everything has changed,_ I reminded myself, but I knew the words were a lie.


	5. Chapter 5

/

" _I feel the ground beneath us move._ "

\- _I Need Love_ , Boy Kid Cloud

/

God, why did she have to be so damn _perfect_? With her perfect words and her perfect wardrobe and her perfect ass. Even the fact that her name was slightly similar to mine pissed me off. I was regretting coming here.

"Would you like some more lemonade?" Jess offered. That's what she had told me to call her. _Jess_. As if we were friends or something like that.

I held out my glass for more lemonade. I didn't even like the stuff. And it was pink. _Pink_ lemonade. I hated it, but Sam had asked me to make an effort, so here I was, reaching my arm out to get more pink lemonade I'd have to force myself to gulp down.

"So Ellen tells me you're taking self-defense classes," she said as she sat down again. "That's pretty neat. I always wanted to try some myself, but I could never find the time."

"That's too bad." I tried to keep the indifference from my voice, but I'm not sure if I succeeded. I didn't tell her that I had actually cancelled my classes just yesterday. After my run-in with the creep in the alley I had gone to my next class with enthusiasm, but I quickly realized that whatever my middle-aged teacher taught me would be of no use in a real situation. Those classes were a load of crap. "When did you say Sam was coming home again?"

Jess looked at the clock on the stove. "He should be here any minute. Until then, it's just us two girls." Then she smiled at me, and her perfect white teeth made it on my list of things to hate about her.

Silence spread between us as we both sat at her kitchen table. I could tell she was uncomfortable with it, her mind searching for a topic to chat about, but I wasn't about to help the flow of conversation. I had nothing to talk about with her, and silence was not always a bad thing. Sometimes it could be welcomed.

I stared at the green numbers on the clock. I stared at the pitcher of lemonade and noticed it had yellow flowers on it. I stared at Jess as she stared at her glass, her fingernails unpainted and trimmed short. She was wearing her scrubs. She had told me she had a shift in half-an-hour. I was considering asking her how many people she had seen die in the emergency room when the front door opened and Sam's massive frame was squeezed into the two-bedroom apartment.

Jess seemed just as relieved as I was to see Sam. She went over to greet him, taking his coat and hanging it on a hook by the door. I turned my eyes away as they greeted each other with a kiss. It was like watching some family show where the main couple only fought about what to bring to the neighbour's pot luck or whether or not to keep the stray dog they had found in the backyard. I suddenly realized how much Sam had actually changed. He had a good life now. He looked happy, coming home to his fiancée and his own warm apartment. No more windowless rooms in a youth shelter or flings with amnesia-riddled assassins.

I should have been happy for him. I was, in a way. But this sinking feeling in my stomach, the reason why I couldn't stand Jessica, my longing for the past, I realized then and there that it was all because I was afraid. I would never admit it to anyone but myself, but I was afraid that Sam had tossed away his past. I couldn't really blame him for it; there was too much pain to remember without allowing it to cloud his present. But if he had in fact thrown it all away, then that would mean I had been tossed into the abyss as well. It means I had been forgotten.

"Hey, Jo." I looked up and realized Sam was standing before me, a smile on his lips. I wanted to return the expression but before I could say anything his cell phone was ringing. It was Ellen. She was calling to check up, like she did every night. I had heard her on the phone in our apartment, asking Sam how he was adjusting to the city after being gone for so long, if he was eating properly and had enough time to get groceries, how his job was going. It was a little strange to finally be hearing the other side of the conversation.

"Yes, Ellen. I changed the password. You don't have to worry." I could tell Sam was fighting the urge to roll his eyes. That's what young Sam would have done, back when Ellen had been nothing but a nosy shrink in a rundown youth shelter. "And besides," he continued, walking to the kitchen counter. "There's 24-hour security personnel stationed down in the lobby. No one can get in who doesn't live in the apartment building." We both knew he was wasting his breath. Ellen had been a cop for years, and the paranoia that came with that job description hadn't left when she had stopped being one.

Another five minutes passed before Sam was allowed to hang up the phone. That's when I witnessed Jessica's arms wrapping around his waist, her forehead pressing against his shoulder blade. "How was your first week of work?" she asked him, her voice muffled by his shirt.

Sam turned around and looked down at her, making sure to meet her eyes. "Fine," he said. I could tell it was a lie. I could tell he was putting on what he hoped to pass as a smile of confidence. "How was your first week at work?"

She grinned. "I love it there," she told him. "Everyone at the hospital is so nice, and some of the other nurses even invited me out to drinks after our next shift together."

Sam's smile turned softer but it was genuine now. He was happy for her, but his eyes began to slowly fade as his mouth became a frown and a line formed between his eyes. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but Jess beat me to it. "Sam? Are you all right?" she asked, her eyes full of worry.

He blinked and then seemed to mentally shake himself out of whatever thoughts he had been sucked into. "Of course," he replied. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You had that look on your face again."

He furrowed his brow. "What look?"

"Like you're expecting something bad to happen," I interrupted.

"Yeah, exactly." Jess nodded. "You look so determined, like you're going to face it head on."

"Must be the job," he said quickly, stepping away from her. "I just have a feeling this first case is going to be a difficult one."

Jess' hands fell back to her sides but her eyes followed him across the kitchen. For a moment I felt bad for her. How was she supposed to understand Sam when she wasn't allowed to know anything about what he'd been through? She seemed to buy it, or at least to drop her worries, because she turned her attention to the clock as she grabbed her purse from the counter. "Well, you two, I'm already late for work. It was nice talking to you, Jo. You should come visit us more often. Maybe one of these days we can have a girl's night out."

I waved as I nodded my head unconvincingly. Sam said goodbye and then she was out the door and Sam was plopping down on the chair next to me, his huge frame swamping the piece of furniture. He let out a long sigh, probably having forgotten I was in the room for a moment.

"Rough day at the office?" I asked.

"You have no idea."

"I thought it was _fine_ ," I teased.

Sam chuckled but then ran a hand through his hair, turning serious. "I didn't want to worry Jess."

"About what? You hating your new job or the fact that New York City isn't exactly the best place for you to be right now?"

He was silent for a moment, his eyes focused on the tabletop, but then I saw the edge of his mouth tilt upwards. "I missed you, Jo."

I couldn't help but feel slightly giddy as I heard those four words. But I couldn't let him know how much they affected me. I wasn't in love with Sam anymore. I couldn't allow myself to be. So I sat up straighter in my chair and folded my hands on the table.

"What's the matter, Sam?"

He seemed to hesitate, as if he had forgotten what it was like to talk about his problems with another human being. "I didn't want to tell her that it was not what I had expected at all," he began. I realized he was talking about Jess and his job. "Some prick named Toby at my office has made it his mission to make my life a miserable hell. Apparently he doesn't appreciate newcomers, especially those fresh from Stanford, breaching the place he's taken almost a decade to get to. He humiliated me in front of everyone in the office today, and I have a feeling it's only the beginning. We've both been placed on the same case, one of the biggest in the law firm's history, and I know it's going to be just that much tougher with Toby by my side waiting for me to make a mistake."

I knew this wasn't what was really troubling Sam. He had gone through too much crap in his lifetime to allow some heckler to bring him down so easily. So I let him talk. He would get to the point eventually. He just needed time. He was out of practice.

"And I'm glad that Jess likes it in New York, but I can't help but wonder if coming here has been a huge mistake after all. I know this is going to sound stupid, Jo, but I've been having this strange feeling since I got here. I felt it first at the airport. It's like I'm being watched. It's so subtle, but it's there. I figured it's just my imagination. My paranoia. But still, I can't shake the feeling that me returning to New York has triggered something, like the fall of a snowflake triggers an avalanche." He raised his eyes from the table and looked out the kitchen window into the dark night. "It's only a matter of time before it comes tumbling down the mountain to sweep me up in its chaos."

_This is about Dean_. Those were the first words to enter my head. _He doesn't even know it, but this as all about Dean._

I caught myself thinking that I should tell Sam the truth. I hated lying to him about Dean being alive, but then I would tell myself that it wasn't really lying; it was just omitting a fact. If he would ask me, I would tell him. All he had to say was, "Hey, Jo, is Dean really dead?" That's all. I couldn't be held accountable for what Sam did or did not decide to do.

_Yeah, nice excuse. Some friend you are, Jo._

I reached a hand out and placed it on his shoulder. "Then get off the mountain, Sam."

He scoffed weakly. "You suck at advice."

/

One week and I still had not found the snitch. Now Balth was furious, I had pissed off clients, and I couldn't trust any of my men. _Someone_ had called the police with a tip about one of my drop-offs. _Someone_ had betrayed my trust. _Someone_ had cost me a lot of money and lost me a part of my reputation.

And now someone else was deciding to fuck with me yet again, and I couldn't help but feel that this month was not going to be looking up anytime soon.

I took a strange comfort in the fact that Hellhound was full of the usual assholes. The bar was usually busy, which would be surprising, considering it was really nothing special, if it was not for the fact that it was one of the only places in the city off the NYPD's radar. That made it a prime spot for anyone who wanted to do illegal things with discretion and in comfort. The place was headed by Crowley, some Scottish guy who had paid off the right people. With cops in his pocket he owned a series of bars and clubs across the city, in both the high-end neighbourhoods and the dumps, where drugs were found aplenty. He was a businessman, and I'd be lying if I said he wasn't a damn good one.

I had come here to discuss a solution to a problem me and Crowley both shared. A mutual 'friend' of ours had recently broken a promise, resulting in a lot of unhappy people. It was bad business for everyone. Crowley seemed to agree.

"This is why I hate dealing with pawns," the businessman complained as he looked out of his office window and onto the bar floor below. I had always been curious as to why Crowley spoke with an English accent when he insisted that he was Scottish, but there was no time today for unnecessary questions.

"I think it'll be better if we fix the problem tonight, as soon as possible," I said.

He arched one of his eyebrows as he looked over his shoulder to face me. "You can't handle it yourself?"

"Stealing the drugs requires more than just me. My men will be busy with a shipment tonight. I can't spare many of them. But with a few of your guys, it should be easy."

"And what do I get in return?"

"Double the shipment you were promised. And a band-aid on your damaged reputation. Don't want anyone thinking you can be easily messed with, do you?"

He weighed his options as he turned to fully face me, his expression holding that greedy, sly look I was all too familiar with. "I think I'd rather receive an IOU."

"Not gonna happen, Crowley," I growled. "I don't hand out IOUs anymore."

"So I've heard. Ever since your business took off you've become quite the docile one, haven't you?"

"Docile is not the word I'd use," I replied, sick of Crowley and his English accent. "But I'm not for hire anymore."

"Too bad," he pouted. "There's this politician who's been making a fuss and causing me some trouble. Dick Roman. You heard of the guy? If I had you-"

"Do we have a deal or not?" I interjected. Maybe a few years ago I would have considered taking the job, but not today. I didn't have to kill to make a living now. Not directly, anyway.

"We have a deal," Crowley said as he made his way over to his desk. Sitting on the edge of the mahogany monstrosity, he grabbed a sheet of paper and pen and scribbled a number down before holding out the sheet. "Call this number. Ask for O'Neil. He'll organize some men to accompany you on your oh-so-heroic quest to salvage our names."

I went to grab the sheet but he drew it back. "And Dean?" I braced myself for whatever smart-ass remark he was about to say. "Don't fuck this up too."

He smiled and I held back the urge to tell him to go fuck himself as I snatched the sheet from his hand and walked out of the room. I hated having to ask for help, but I had no other choice. I just wished Crowley wasn't such a smart son of a bitch. He had obviously heard about my little rat problem and knew I had been lying about the shipment my men were busy with tonight. The real truth was my men were all out of commission until I found the snitch, which left me vulnerable. I did not like feeling that way around Crowley.

I hadn't come in here with the intention of drinking, but after my conversation with Crowley I had a bad taste in my mouth. When I reached the bar I ordered a whiskey and tried not to listen to the conversations around me as I watched the bartender pour my drink. Unfortunately, some guy to my right was a loud talker, and as much as I tried to tune him out I couldn't help but overhear what he was saying.

"Kinsley says the kid won't make it three weeks. Not with Toby cracking down on him the way he has been."

The guy he was talking to said something in reply but I didn't catch the words. The bartender refilled my glass.

"Oh, definitely. Toby's been making it hell for him." He let out an inappropriately loud laugh. "They're both working the Azazel case."

_Azazel_. I had heard that name before, among the whispers of my men. I had never paid it much attention, for there were always new names arising in the underground. They usually disappeared as quickly as they arrived, like an assembly line of pop stars.

I tuned out of the conversation and ordered a third glass. It had been a while since I had let myself drink, and the burning sensation at the back of my throat was like an old friend.

"You should have seen Toby yesterday. He made the kid look like an idiot." My ears picked up the voice again and I scowled, wishing I could tune out all the noise for just a moment. One fucking minute would be all I needed. But no such luck.

"The funny thing is it wasn't even Campbell's fault. But his face got so red. I wish I could have taken a picture. Post it up on the office bulletin or something."

_Campbell_. A much more familiar name. Sam Campbell. He had enrolled in Stanford with that name. But it couldn't be... There were probably dozens of Campbells in this city.

Still, I couldn't let this pass. Not when I knew first-hand how fucked up fate could be; how much coincidences could change a person's life.

I shouldered my way over to the two guys, following the sound of the absurdly loud laughter. They looked just like I had imagined them to, thirty-something big shots dressed in expensive suits with their ties loosened and their faces red from alcohol consumption. The loud one gave me a wary look as he finally stopped laughing and noticed my presence.

"You a lawyer?" I asked him.

"Why the fuck do you want to know?" the other one countered.

"We're not doing you any favors, asshole, so move along."

"Yeah, we're tight with Crowley. You think you can threaten us to get some charges taken off of you, you've got another thing coming. He'll have you killed in an instant."

I almost smiled at that. Crowley sending someone to kill me after he had just tried to convince me to kill someone for him. "Relax. I don't give a shit about you two. Where can I find Toby?"

"What?"

I sighed inwardly. "Toby. The guy you were just talking about. Where is he?"

The loud one was grinning now. "Oh, you must be his new dealer. He was telling me about you the other day." He seemed to get confused for a moment, because he gave me a once over before saying, "Though he said you were an ugly fucker." He shrugged and grinned again. "Whatever, man. He said you've got the best coke in the city. You giving him more tonight?"

I had no idea what this idiot was talking about, but I decided to go along with it. "Yeah, is he around?"

He leaned his head to the left. "In the washroom taking a shit." His friend chuckled at this and then they were both laughing and I was walking away. It was a good thing Toby was here tonight. It saved me from making the trip to his house.

I found Toby swearing to himself as he sat on the bowl, obviously having some trouble dropping the kids off at the swimming pool. The look on his face was priceless as the stall door was kicked in, the metal lock breaking like a twig. He started screaming as I went to grab the front of his shirt, trying to decide whether to shove me away or pull up his pants first. He went for the pants, and as I dragged him out of the stall he tripped over one of the loose pant legs, stumbling as I led him to the sinks.

He had the waistband of his pants around his thighs when I shoved him against the counter. I was glad he was wearing a long dress shirt, which saved me from seeing anything unpleasant.

"I've got a question for you, Toby," I growled. His eyes grew wider as he realized I knew his name, and I could almost see his thought process as he figured out he was in deeper shit than he had thought. I wasn't just some drunken stranger who wanted to pick a fight. I had come here for a reason; a reason involving him specifically.

"Wh- What is it?" he stuttered, the bathroom's horrible lighting shining along his receding hairline. "What do you want?" The guy had a full-blown New York accent. He almost sounded like he was faking it, but I highly doubted he'd be able to pull off an accent like that when he was preoccupied with not shitting himself.

I drew him closer, my face only a few inches from his own. "What's a nice little lawyer like yourself doing playing with cocaine?" I asked, my voice low but tinged with a mocking sweetness. "You got a little habit you can't kick?"

I watched as his face visibly paled and couldn't help but enjoy the moment. This? This I was good at. It had been a while since I had physically threatened anyone, and the adrenaline rushing through my veins was something I hadn't realized I had missed until now.

"Are you a cop?" he asked me. " _Fuck_. Am I being arrested?"

I almost laughed at that. The thought of me being a cop was amusing, to say the least. Instead, I turned him around and shoved his head down against the counter. Leaning over the trembling man, I snarled in his ear, "Does it fucking look like I protect and serve? I don't care about your drug addiction, asshole. What I _do_ care about is your involvement in the Azazel case."

"The Azazel case?" he shrieked, one cheek in a puddle of soapy tap water. "Are you one of his guys? _Shit!_ Look, I didn't even want on the case. I'll tell you anything you want to know. Please, just don't kill me."

This Azazel guy seemed to have the lawyer more scared than I did, which was saying something, but I had no interest in finding out more about the name. Not now. I had enough problems to deal with. Besides, I could tell Toby was on the verge of tears. I had broken him. I released him and stepped back. He righted himself and spun around, his chest heaving, waiting for me to speak.

"Sam Campbell," I said after a beat.

He looked at me with a puzzled expression. "S-Sam Campbell? What about him?"

"I heard you've been causing him some trouble." I cocked my head to the side, playfully daring him to deny it.

He looked around the washroom nervously, obviously not having expected this turn in events. "Sam sent you?"

I smirked. "You didn't know Sam has powerful friends?"

Toby shook his head slowly, his mouth hanging open and rings of white visible around his pupils.

_Neither does Sam_ , I thought to myself before taking a step forward. I jabbed my finger into Toby's chest. "What do you have against the kid?"

"I- I, uh..." He still seemed to be shocked that I was here because of Sam. I decided to reboot his mind, throwing out a right hook at 40% power. His head whipped to the side and he placed a hand against his cheek, looking at me like he had just been bitch slapped. I supposed it was probably the first time the guy had been punched.

"Why the fuck are you trying to get him fired?" I asked, grabbing his shirt again. I searched his eyes for the answer. "Is it jealousy? Spite? Are you angry that he's already made his way to the top law firm in the country when he's just finished law school?" His expression told me that was only half the reason.

I was about to shake him up a bit more when the door suddenly crashed open. Three young guys, probably in their early twenties, stood in the doorway with bewildered looks. They obviously didn't know whether to enter or not with the current situation playing out in front of them, so I decided to give them a little nudge in the right direction.

"Get the fuck out," I snarled, and the guys immediately backed out of the entrance, faster than they had come barging in. Returning my glare to the lawyer, I watched as he cowered against the sinks, the edges of his expensive shirt soaking from the puddle on the counter.

He finally seemed to recover his voice. "Look, I'm doing it for the guy's own good. He's getting married in a few months, right?" _God, why does everyone feel the need to remind me of that fact?_ "If he pursues this Azazel case any further, his future is going to be a lot less certain."

I gave the guy a once over. "So you're saying he's pissed off some people."

" _Of course_ he's pissed off some people. And these aren't your ordinary folk. You get on their bad side or step in their way and you disappear. I've seen it happen before."

I released my hands and the guy pressed himself further against the counter, leaning over the sinks backwards as if to put as much space as possible between us.

"I think you're telling the truth," I said, although with little enthusiasm. "But not when it comes to your motives. You're not sabotaging Sam because you want to protect him. You're doing it because for the past few years you've been making a profit keeping those 'folk' from becoming a little less extraordinary, and the new guy's been messing that up for you."

I could see the lawyer swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, and I knew I was right. I'd met a lot of dirty lawyers in my line of work, and they were all the same. The same as dirty cops and judges and politicians. They all stank of corruption, and in this guy's case, expensive cologne.

"The kid's gonna get himself killed."

This guy really pissed me off, pretending to care about Sam's well-being. He probably would have thrown his own grandmother in front of a truck if he thought it would get him ahead in life. I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him over to the urinals, his pants falling to his ankles as he tried to pull himself free. I made sure he was comfortably seated in one of the urinals before I continued our conversation.

" _You're_ gonna get yourself killed if you don't straighten yourself up, asshole," I hissed as I threw him a look of disgust. "You lawyers are supposed to be upholding justice and all that crap, not slinking around with the scum of the city." I grabbed his chin and forced him to stare me in the eyes, making sure he heard my next words clearly. "If you mess with Sam again, or if I catch you around here a second time, I will personally carry out my own punishment on you. After all, the judicial system is obviously corrupt. I doubt anyone would really care if I took the law into my own hands, right?"

I held back a smirk as the guy trembled, but then patted his cheek and walked away. Pushing open the bathroom door, I found Crowley waiting for me with two of his bodyguards.

"Having fun?" he asked with that arch of his eyebrow. His arms were crossed over his chest, and behind him was a lineup of guys waiting to use the washroom.

"Tons," I replied before I began walking down the hall in the direction of the back exit. I knew Crowley was irritated, but I didn't have the patience tonight to soothe his temper. Besides, I couldn't have cared less if the guy had to deal with pissed off customers. And it was time to go anyway. The drinks I had downed at the bar were already having a surprising affect on me, and being anything less than alert in a place like this was not a good idea.

Sam hadn't been in the Rotten Apple for more than two weeks and he was already making waves. In fact, it seemed the kid had performed a huge fucking cannonball right in the middle of the filthy cesspool that was this city. The waves were on their way out, towards the edges and the fringes of society, but pretty soon they would be hitting a wall and bouncing right back to Sam. The corrupt lawyer had been right. Sam was going to get himself killed if he continued this way.

Someone had to wake the damn kid up.


	6. Chapter 6

/

" _And my dreams are wearin' thin_."

\- _Get Free_ , Major Lazer

/

"Double the shipment, just as I promised," I said. Crowley replied with a less than grateful remark, his British accent sounding condescending even over the phone.

"I gave you the damn thieves too," I replied, ignoring his comment. "You can do to them whatever you see fit." I didn't envy the guys. Yes, they had crossed me by hijacking the drugs I had paid them to deliver, but I had heard the rumors about Crowley. He was a businessman, but apparently he also had a taste for torture. When you were unfortunate enough to make it onto his list of enemies, you usually ended up dying a pretty horrific death. Or you were left to live a pretty shitty life, crapping into a bag and relying on a machine to breathe.

"That's really none of your business, Crowley." I was getting irritated. "You're telling me you care about a little conversation I had with a dirty lawyer in the bathroom of your bar? Aren't you a little above that?"

I didn't like the fact that Crowley was showing interest in a conversation that had involved Sam, but his prying brought me back to a dilemma that still needed solving. The drug shipment I had promised Crowley had finally been delivered safely, aside from a few head bashings, but I still had to decide how best to approach Sam's criminal-angering tendencies.

As Crowley droned on and on about washroom management and customer service and its direct relation to money I went over my options again.

It would only take a few moments to pop into Jo's and tell her that Sam might be getting himself into some dangerous trouble. Then she would have a little chat with him. It would be easy, and afterwards I could carry on with my life knowing Sam was not putting himself in mortal danger every day. It would all work out perfectly.

As long as Sam listened to Jo. As long as he backed down from this Azazel case. As long as he didn't question anything and agreed to quit his job and move out of the city.

I felt my stomach twist as I weighed the possibility of Sam actually behaving that way. If he was still the kid I had known seven years ago, there was no chance in hell he was going to take Jo's warning and not analyze it from every angle. He'd want to know who her source was, and if she lied and said it was a friend of Ellen's in the police force, he would dig until he discovered it was a lie. Then the more dangerous questions would begin.

I could ask Balth to help out, but did I trust him enough? Hell no. He hadn't screwed me over yet, but that was only because I hadn't given the son of a bitch the chance to. Giving him Sam's name would only garner questions I didn't want to answer, and there really wasn't much Balth could do anyway. He was in charge of the NYPD, but what good would a patrol car stationed outside of Sam's apartment do to protect the kid against major players in the crime industry?

"Likewise," I agreed as I pulled onto the off ramp, heading for my empty apartment. "It wasn't a pleasure doing business with you either, Crowley." When the guy finally hung up and I hit three green lights in a row, I realized it was nice to have something going well for a change. But I knew I couldn't trust the feeling. Whenever life decided to throw you a bone, something bad was always bound to happen soon.

As if on cue, my cell phone rang again. I answered it, expecting the worst. Perhaps another problem with the drug shipments I was expecting later this week. " _What_?" I snapped.

"Blessed are the merciful," said a female voice, and for a moment I wasn't sure I had heard correctly.

Those words…

I found myself replying out of habit. "For they shall receive mercy." Was it really her? I already knew the answer - those words had been our greeting not so long ago - but I found myself asking anyway. "Malice?"

I heard her laugh, that familiar high-pitched cackle sounding slightly tinny over the phone connection. "You haven't forgotten me already, have you, Mercy?"

I couldn't answer. I didn't know what to say. Malice was one of the few people who could confound me, and she had just done it again. Of course I hadn't forgotten her, but at the same time she had somehow slipped from my concerns. She had always been a problem I knew there was a chance I would have to deal with someday, but not today. Not now.

There was only a slight pause before she continued to speak. "You seem surprised, Mercy. I like it when you're left speechless." She chuckled, her laugh now a low hum. "But let's get down to business. I didn't call you up just to say hi. You're looking for the mole in your operation, and you're on the right track. I know who you have in mind. Jacobs. Keith Jacobs. Nervous guy who likes to drink to loosen up. You think he's the snitch, and you're right. He is."

Keith Jacobs. He was the name at the top of my list of possible suspects. I believed it was him who had called in the tip to the NYPD last week after paying a visit to his home and being told by his neighbours that he had been missing for a while. I figured he had skipped town, but everything in his place had been left untouched, like he had just disappeared. Some part of me wondered how Malice knew all of this - the rational side of my mind - but the other part of me was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that she had called me. It had been nearly a decade since I had last seen the girl, and I had no idea what she could possibly want.

"You see," she continued. "I got Mr. Jacobs here to tell me all of his deep dark secrets, and on the way he spilled about the little operation you had planned last week."

"What are you doing, Malice?" I finally managed to say. With Malice's unprecedented talent of being able to catch people off guard, it was never a good idea to remain vulnerable for too long. I had to quickly accept that she was back in my life and find a way to deal with it. That started with figuring out what she was going on about.

A scream rocked my eardrum and I jerked the cell phone away from my head. It had been a male's voice this time. I could hear someone sobbing, pleading. A man was begging for his life on the other end of the line. "Oh god, please. _Please_. Don't hurt me anymore. Please, I can't take it."

I guessed the words were coming from the mouth of Keith Jacobs. I had never really liked the guy – he was a clumsy drunk with no ambition – but he followed orders well, an asset when it came to carrying out my type of business. Unfortunately, he was in Malice's hands now, which meant he was as good as dead. I had just lost another man whom I needed to keep my business afloat. It put a sour taste in my mouth.

"So you're the one who called in the tip," I said, piecing the puzzle together. "You're the snitch. Why?"

"An experiment," was her reply. "I wanted to know if you had friends in the NYPD. And _surprise_. It looks like you're BFFs with the big Chief himself."

I wanted to curse but held it back. I could not afford to deal with Malice right now. She had always been a pain in my ass, but at this point in my life her getting mixed up in my affairs could prove to be catastrophic. I didn't want to spare the time or effort it would take to contend with her.

"You could have just asked me."

"Where's the fun in that?" Her words were dripping with satanic glee. There was another scream from Jacobs. "You know how much I like to have fun."

I finally hit a red light and came to a stop. "Are you planning something?" I spoke low into the mouthpiece, as if someone in an idling car beside me would be able to overhear our conversation. "Are you trying to draw me out again with all of this?"

"I just want to catch up while I'm in town, Mercy."

I wanted to tell her not to call me by that name, but I knew it would do no good. "Do I have a choice?"

I could almost see her smile. "Meet me at 18 98th street on Friday when the sun goes down. It'll be nice to see you again."

"Yeah," I said unconvincingly. "It'll be nice to see you too."

"By the way," she added before I could hang up. "Mr. Jacobs here tells me he's snitched to others."

I frowned. "Others?"

"Don't trust anyone, Mercy. Especially not me."

_Click._

I held the phone away from my ear and looked at it, as if it the device would answer all the questions running through my head. Malice always spoke in riddles, but what she had said at the end of our conversation left me with a bad feeling. Had she set me up?

Then a more terrifying notion entered my head, and I was pulling a U-turn in the middle of the street, earning myself several blaring beeps from passing cars. If Malice knew this much about me, there was no telling how much she had discovered. She could have been watching me for years. She could have-

_Sam_.

I drove like a madman for the next twenty minutes. I realized my palms were sweating when I turned the wheel to pull into a narrow street. My destination. Sam's apartment was near the end, between a retail store and a smaller apartment building. It wasn't hard to find a parking spot at this late hour, and I sat in the silence that suddenly enveloped the car's interior as the engine shut off.

I contemplated what I was doing here, wondering if I was overreacting. Malice had never mentioned Sam. She had never given any indication that she was a threat to him. For all I knew, she could have followed me here and I was now leading her to the kid, though I knew it was probably unlikely. I had to stop and think for a moment. I had to try to be rational.

Seven years I had withheld the knowledge of my presence from Sam, so why now? Why was I planning to see him now?

_You know why, you selfish bastard_ , I told myself. _You've been waiting for an excuse this entire time, and now you finally have one._

"This is a bad idea," I mumbled. I placed my hand on the car keys still stuck in the ignition, prepared to turn them and start up the engine again. But then I saw her. Jessica, dressed in a cream coloured coat and white runners. She was exiting the building's front entrance, rummaging in her purse for something. Now turning onto the sidewalk and making her way down the street towards me. I sat perfectly still as she passed my car, looking straight ahead but focused on her even as she entered my peripheral vision. She was smiling a little, headphones in her ears. She didn't glance at the window, not even to check her own reflection, and as she finally disappeared I let out a breath I hadn't realized I had been holding.

If Sam was home, he would most likely be alone right now. And that seemed to be enough of an incentive to force me out of the Impala and across the street to an alley that ran along his apartment building. I chose the one bordered by the retail store, hoping for less curious eyes as I jumped up to the rusting fire escape snaking down the brick building.

It didn't take me long to climb to the eighth floor, ensuring each footstep was placed in the best position to minimize noise made by my ascent. I knew exactly where Sam's apartment was. I had paid a few visits to it before he had moved in, weeks ahead of the day he had arrived in New York City. The layout of the apartment was burned into my mind and I knew the dark window I was now crouching in front of led into the master bedroom. I also knew that the lock was broken. I had taken care of that three days before Sam and Jess had moved in. Just in case.

_Just in case you had to sneak into his apartment to warn him that a crazy bitch from your past might be a threat to him? Yeah. Right. You were planning this meeting the entire time. You knew it was going to happen. You knew you'd give in eventually, you guilty son of a bitch._

I knew the accusations I were throwing around in my head were probably true, but if I had been preparing for this moment the entire time, why did I feel so unprepared right now? Peering into the window, my hands cupped around my eyes, I knew there was no one inside. I could see light shining from the crack beneath the bedroom door across the space. A shadow obscured it for a moment and I figured Sam was walking around in the kitchen.

What would I say to him? How would I explain everything? I knew he would have questions, just like Jo. Would I be able to avoid them? Would I have the strength to lie to him? I had rehearsed nothing. I felt like I was entering a shootout with a single gun and an empty clip.

_Don't tell him anything unnecessary_ , I reminded myself. _All he needs to know is that New York City is not a safe place for him right now. He needs to drop the Azazel case and leave. Make him drop it. Make him leave. You may be the only one who can convince him. Just say what you have to say and get out._

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves, still unconvinced this was a smart idea. Then I lifted the window and slid into the room.

/

Work had been a nightmare. Toby the asshole hadn't let up with his sarcastic, condescending remarks all morning, and the coffee in the break room had been stale when I had gotten there. Jess had gone to the grocery store to pick up a few things for dinner, leaving me with some time to unwind, but I felt like I needed to go for a ten mile run just to ease my nerves a little.

Entering my bedroom, I clicked on the bedside lamp and sat down on the end of the king-sized bed. I let out a groan as I slipped my shoes from my feet, wondering if they were a size too small.

This Azazel case was proving to be more complicated than anyone had first believed it to be. The whole thing consisted of several separate cases involving crimes committed by individuals claiming to have been under the direction of a man who went by the name Azazel. But the identity of Azazel was far from common knowledge. No one seemed to know who the man was, which made our work difficult when trying to find the main perpetrator behind the cases we were dealing with. I had made a little progress over the last few days, but it wasn't much. My work was frustrating at best.

I let myself fall back on my bed, groaning again as I felt the pressure of the day released from my back and shoulders. But my temporary respite did not last long. There was a noise and I sat up, my back straight as a rod. "Who's there?" I said aloud. I knew it was probably just the wind or a cat rubbing against the window, but killing a mob boss tended to make you wary. It had been seven years, but revenge didn't always have a clear timeline, and old habits tended to die hard.

"I'm going to call security," I warned, feeling slightly silly but comforting myself with the fact that no one would hear me unless there really was an intruder. "Reveal yourself, now."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice said from the shadows in the corner of the room. "You're just going to make things harder on me if you call security in here."

A shadow disengaged itself from the wall and began to move forward, transforming into the shape of a man walking along the edge of the room.

"It's not like I couldn't handle a rent-a-cop, but I just really don't feel like making the effort tonight. On top of keeping you alive, it's asking a little much, don't you think?"

He walked fully into the lamp's glow and suddenly I knew I was dreaming. This was some sort of twisted dream I would wake up from in a moment.

"I mean, it's already hard enough keeping an eye out for you, but then you have to go and make enemies with the most powerful and corrupt people in the city. You know how hard you're making this for me?"

I couldn't respond. I couldn't even breathe. It felt like my chest had suddenly been filled with concrete.

"Not to mention the fact that you're so damn good at your job that you actually have those guys _worried_. Now, that worries _me_ , because people do crazy shit when they're scared."

I watched as he pushed down a section of the blinds and glanced out, his eyes in the reflection shifting from left to right and then left again. He let the blinds fall back with a twang and then he was stepping to the center of the room, facing me with his arms crossed over his chest. He smirked.

"What, not even a 'hello', Sammy? You never used to be so quiet."

The sound of my nickname hit me like a punch to the stomach. I fought the urge to double up as I tried to figure out if this was some sort of dream or if this was actually happening. I'd had dreams like this before, where he came back. But I knew this one was too vivid. Too real. Yet it was impossible that he was standing in the middle of my bedroom, that smug smirk on his face; the one I hadn't seen for years.

I wanted to say his name. To see if he would react to it the same way I had reacted to mine; to see if he was real.

"Dean," I barely whispered, finally able to exhale slightly. His smirk remained for a moment as he looked at me, but then it slowly receded. I couldn't tell what he was feeling. I could hardly sort out my own emotions. We stayed in silence for a moment, each taking in the other. Some part of me noticed that he had blood spattered across his shirt, but it was only a minor detail in the flurry of thoughts ravaging my brain.

"How?" I heard myself ask.

His cocky grin returned to his face, though the look in his eyes remained unreadable. "Made a deal with the devil."

There was the faint sound of the front door being unlocked and then swinging open. Dean's head swiveled as he looked at the entrance of the room, in the direction of the noise. "What are you going to tell your fiancée?" I heard him ask after a moment, but I couldn't grasp the meaning of his words. No matter how hard I tried to, I couldn't fit both him and Jess into the same world. It was like they existed in separate universes. There was no way they could possibly be in the same apartment, because that would mean-

"Honey, I got that cherry cheesecake you- Oh, hello. Sam didn't mention he was going to have a guest over tonight."

Jess' voice sounded distant even though I knew she was standing in the doorway of our bedroom. I could see her out of the corner of my eye, but I couldn't turn my head to greet her. Dean had glanced her way momentarily but he was looking at me again, and even now I still expected him to blur into the haze of a dream. But he remained concrete. Solid. An object with substance that demanded the entirety of my attention.

"Sam?"

I didn't want to swing my stare from Dean to Jess. I didn't want to look back and find Dean gone and realize that the man had just been my imagination playing tricks after all. I wanted this to be real. _Fuck_ , I wanted it to be real so badly. But I looked at Jess anyway, my fiancée still dressed in her cream coloured coat and cradling a paper bag in the crook of her arm. She was looking at Dean with a polite smile on her face. Then she glanced at me, and I knew she was expecting me to introduce her, but I still couldn't find my voice. It was like I had become mute. A lawyer without words.

"It was a surprise visit," I heard Dean say. "I'm Marshall. I'm a friend of Sam's. He was just giving me a tour of the place." I watched in amazement as he took a step forward and reached a hand out. Jessica took it and as they shook hands it was like my whole world was tumbling down around me; like my past and my future had suddenly collided.

"Oh," Jess said as her hand returned to her side. "A friend from Stanford?"

Dean shook his head. "Nah, me and Sammy here know each other from before he decided to go off and become a big shot lawyer." He turned to me, the smirk having returned. "It's been, what, over seven years?"

I felt myself nodding, though I was barely aware of the motion. Jess was looking at Dean with bright eyes. "So you know Sam from before school?" she asked, hopeful. "From when he lived in New York?"

"Yeah, we grew up in the same neighbourhood," Dean replied, stepping closer to me. He put a hand on my shoulder as he said, "I guess you could say I was a… close friend of the family."

The weight of his hand, the closeness of his body, his indifferent words, they were all too much for me to handle. Not only could I see him, but Dean was touching me now. He was _real_. He was not a part of my imagination. He was not dead, a fact that I had accepted as reality before. And here he was lying to my fiancée, joking about our connection like he was actually my friend and our history wasn't as messed up and confusing and implausible as it was.

I jumped up from the bed, Dean's hand slipping from my shoulder, and came to stand next to Jess. As I faced Dean he looked at me with a blank expression. "You have to leave," I told him. "You have to go now."

"Sam, what are you-"Jess, began, but I quickly cut her off. "And I would appreciate it if you never came to visit me again." The coldness in my own voice shocked me. It was like the collision of my past and present had split my mind into two. The past me, the part I had slowly hidden over the years behind tests and assignments and cases, was suddenly aware again, awaken from a slumber and now trying to recollect itself. But the other part, the part my fiancée knew and the part I had built tirelessly over the past seven years, was taking control, thinking logically.

Dean stared, his eyes boring into mine. I could barely hold his gaze even though his face was still emotionless, hiding whatever he felt towards my words. Before he could reply, Jess was speaking again. "Please, stay," she said. "I've never met one of Sam's friends from before he came to Stanford. I'd love it if you would stay for dinner. I know it's late, but have you eaten yet?"

I clenched my fists, knowing that Jess was desperate to learn something about my past. I had always been unwilling to tell her, and now that she had discovered another source I knew she was trying hard not to let it slip away.

Dean looked like he was about to say something to me, but his eyes suddenly flicked to Jess, his face brightening into a carefree smile. "I would love to, Jessica, but I actually have somewhere I have to be." He returned his gaze to me, but it was like he was looking through me instead of at me. "Sam, it was nice seeing you again. I'll let myself out."

Then, without another word, he left the room in a few quick strides, leaving Jess a little startled and me more than a little stunned. After a moment there was the sound of the front door opening and then closing shut. I released a breath I had known I'd been holding, but my lungs were barely empty before Jess was whirling around and pinning me with a hard glare. "Why were you like that?" she demanded to know. "I thought you said he was your friend, yet you kick him out like that?"

"I never said he was my friend."

She shook her head, clearly disappointed. "I just don't know what to do with you." Then she was leaving the room too. I was suddenly alone again, only the distant sound of running water in the kitchen enough to penetrate the stillness.

I replayed everything that had just happened in my mind again, over and over. Then that dream appeared in my head. I hadn't thought of it in years. During it I had spoken with Dean in a hospital room the night after I had woken up from my coma. He hadn't been real, of course, and I reminded myself now that neither had been our conversation. I hadn't thought I would be able to speak with the man again, and so my mind had provided the missing pieces. It had formulated a conversation in which Dean said exactly what I had wanted to hear. It had allowed me to move on, to forgive him and begin a new life, but it no longer suited that purpose. It couldn't, because now Dean was here again. I could talk to him, and that dream was now only that. It was nothing but fiction.

I had forgiven Dean, but that was because I had thought he was dead. It was easier to forgive someone who you no longer believed was breathing. How had he been alive for the past seven years and had not told me? Why was he here now?

I heard Jess call me for dinner. "I'll be there in a sec," I called back weakly, numbly. Then I took a deep breath and walked out of the room. Just as I would have on any ordinary night, I was about to eat dinner with my fiancée, but things were not the same. My clothes, our apartment, the noises of the city droning through the windows, they were all the same, yet everything was so very different.

Everything had changed.


	7. Chapter 7

/

" _Your wings are broken_."

\- _Icarious_ , The Walton Hoax (ft. Nymos)

/

I hadn't expected to see Sam amongst the crowd today. But there he was, standing half a foot taller than most of the guys in the room, dressed in a navy blue suit and tie. It was an understatement to say he stood out amongst the crowd.

"Sam, what are you doing here?" I called out to him as he finally managed to squeeze his way to the edge of the bar. A guy gave him a dirty look as he was pushed out of the way but then seemed to cool off as he took in the size of Sam.

"I've got to talk to you," he said quickly, yelling across the counter over the music blaring from the speakers. I assumed he had come directly from work, which could only mean one thing: he was in major need of a drink. His eyes looked slightly wild as he stared at me, expecting a reply. It looked like he hadn't slept in days, the circles under his eyes much darker than usual. I noticed his tie was loose, hanging from his neck like a forgotten price tag. Maybe his job at Turner & Elkins was proving to be too much for him to handle.

"Come to the back," I told him, motioning for him to follow me behind the bar. I gave Ellen a hand signal indicating we were okay as she cast us a concerned glance from the cash register. Then we were alone in the storage room, surrounded by boxes of booze and a tiny desk pushed into the corner where Ellen took care of the bills.

I waited for Sam to say something as I leaned against one of the towers of beer cases. It probably wasn't the best idea to push him for details as to why he was here, but he wasn't very forthcoming with the information. He remained silent as he paced back and forth across the space, his eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

"I just-" He stopped, looked up, seemed to contemplate something, spun back around. "I just needed to tell someone." He was walking in the other direction now, continuing his pacing.

I put a hand on his arm to stop him. "Tell someone what, Sam?"

He seemed to collect himself as he blinked once, twice. He appeared calmer as he said, "You're going to think I'm crazy."

I smiled at that. "Who says I don't already have that opinion of you?"

Sam did not smile back. Instead, he put his large hands on my shoulders and bent down, his eyes becoming level with mine. "He's alive, Jo."

An icy sensation crept down my spine as I finally realized why Sam was acting so spooked, as if he had seen a ghost. It was because he had. "Who?" I managed to ask. I was deciding to play it dumb, just in case Sam was referring to someone else. Or maybe because I didn't want him to know I had kept such an important secret from him.

Sam did not answer straight away. He stooped there, staring at me as if deciding whether to tell me the truth, before he finally said, "Dean. He's alive."

I did my best to act surprised. I crinkled my brow and asked him what he was talking about. He stepped away and began to pace again as he explained to me that Dean had paid him a visit the other night. I tried not to show the dread I felt. The thing that made me the most curious was the reason why Dean had done it. Why had he revealed himself to Sam? I thought he had wanted to remain hidden. It had to have been a serious reason for him to change a plan he seemed to have been very committed to.

"Did he say why he was there?" I asked once Sam was finished. "Was there a reason why he came?"

Sam finally stopped pacing as he contemplated the answer. "I have no clue. If there was a reason, he didn't make it clear. But maybe that's because Jess came home."

"Jess?" Had Sam's fiancée met Dean? I couldn't imagine how that meeting would have gone.

"She came home from the grocery store," Sam said numbly as he sat down on the edge of the desk. "Dean said he was an old friend of mine, just visiting. She fell for it."

"Let me guess, she invited him to stay for dinner."

"I told him to leave. To never show his face again," Sam said quietly. He was staring off into space, and I wondered if he was talking to himself instead of to me. "He left when I asked him to."

"So he never said why he was there?"

Sam shook his head and I felt a sudden anger towards Dean for messing with my friend's mind like this. Had he revealed himself just for shits and giggles? Had he only wanted to fuck up Sam's state of mind? If so, it seemed like he had succeeded.

I sat next to Sam and put a hand on his thigh, trying my best to comfort him. "It doesn't change anything, Sam. Dean… Nothing has to change because he's back."

He turned his head and looked at me. "I keep telling myself that, but change is not just a state of mind, Jo. I have no idea what Dean's been up to these past seven years, but I can't imagine it's anything good. He had blood on his shirt when he came to see me."

I frowned at that piece of news. Sam didn't need a psychopathic killer interfering with his new life. He had worked so hard to move on from his past and to get to where he was now. He couldn't afford to have Dean mixed up in his business. I didn't want things to turn out like last time, with a fucked up Sam and a whole lot of dead people to clean up afterwards.

"Forget about him, Sam. You've got a job now, and you can't let Dean mess that up for you. He's a part of your past, remember? Leave him there. If he shows up again, call the police."

Sam nodded his head, but something within told me he wasn't listening. "I've got to get home," he said after awhile. "Jess is making lasagna for dinner." He got up and made his way to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. He looked back at me. "If Dean comes to you, for whatever reason, call the police, all right? He's dangerous."

I nodded my head slowly, the icy dread inside of me reaching the brim of my tolerance. "Got it."

He opened the door and the storage room was flooded with noise. I had to yell again so Sam could hear me. "What are you going to do if he shows up on _your_ doorstep again?"

Sam took a moment to answer. I didn't know if it was due to hesitation or if he seriously hadn't considered the question yet. "Dean is in the past. That's where he's going to stay."

/

Our reunion hadn't exactly gone as I had planned. Then again, how had I imagined it to play out?

_"Hey Sam, I'm alive. Surprise!"_

_"Wow, I can't believe it. We have so much to catch up on."_

_"I know, Sammy. I have to tell you about your mom. I didn't kill her. You know that, but I still have to say sorry."_

_"I forgive you, Dean. It's all in the past."_

_"I promised her I'd protect you. That's why I'm here. I'm going to keep you safe. You see, there's this psychopathic chick I used to know who might be after you."_

_"Great, Dean. I'll cooperate all the way. Just tell me what to do."_

Yeah, right. When had anything ever gone smoothly when it came to Sam? Even the first time we had sex had been a messy catastrophe that ended in bruised faces and split knuckles.

As my mind shifted to our time together seven years ago I shook my head to clear it of the images. Things were different now. Sam had moved on. He was getting married, for Christ's sake. The relationship we had then, as unusual as it had been, was no longer between us. We were strangers again. We had never really been anything more. Right?

As my head spun with questions and doubts and configurations I covered my face with my palm and shut my eyes, hoping the darkness of my eyelids would wipe everything away. Maybe I was thinking about this too much. Maybe the timing had just been bad. I hadn't known Jess would return so soon. I hadn't planned on meeting her. I wished I hadn't.

Wiping the hand down my face I cursed myself. I had gone there to warn Sam and had only made a mess of things. What had I really expected? I should have known he would want nothing to do with me. I shouldn't have showed up in his apartment like I had seen him just yesterday. I should have asked Jo to break the news or… I shouldn't have told him at all. That had been the plan at the beginning, hadn't it? For several years I had kept the news of my existence from Sam in order to protect him, yet now that the kid was finally stepping into some hot water I thought it was a good idea to reveal myself?

I was a fucking dumbass. Sam knowing I was alive wasn't going to make it any easier to protect him. Then why had I gone to him? Why had I felt the urge to finally tell him?

_Because you're a selfish bastard,_ I thought to myself. _You didn't want him to think you were dead. You never have._

"Fuck", I sighed, because I _did_ feel some satisfaction in having revealed my presence to Sam. I had crumpled the satisfied emotion into a tiny ball and stored it somewhere I hoped I could ignore it, but I felt it, like an itch I was trying not to scratch. It was there, and I knew it wouldn't be going away anytime soon.

"You _are_ a selfish bastard," I told myself. Then I realized I had been waiting outside of this building for more than twenty minutes and no one but a homeless woman had walked by. I looked up at the abandoned brick building and wondered if Malice expected me to go inside. It was five storeys tall, every window dark but for a soft glow within the corner room on the third floor. I had noticed the light as soon as I had arrived at 18 98th Street, but Malice couldn't possibly believe I was stupid enough to go up there, could she?

Apparently I _was_ stupid enough, because I was tired of waiting and tired of thinking of Sam and tired of worrying about why Malice was suddenly in my life again. By going up to that room I could kill three birds with one stone, so that was exactly what I was going to do.

_Not unprepared, of course_ , I reminded myself as I checked the clip in my glock before hiding it in the waist of my jeans again. The feeling of smooth metal along my shin also reassured me, because you never knew when a knife might come in handy.

The stairs to the third floor were wide but it was dark, and it took all my concentration to keep from tripping. By the time I made it to the door with the crack of light shining from beneath it my hand was itching for my gun, but that was never how me and Malice greeted each other.

I took a deep breath before I opened the door, pushing it fully inward before I decided to take a step in. It swung open to reveal a brick room with a wooden floor scratched to hell. The light was coming from a lantern placed on a stool sitting in the far corner, framed by two large windows on either side. One faced out towards the main street, the one I had seen earlier. The other overlooked the side street that ran along the building. There were no other pieces of furniture aside from the stool and a steel table pushed against the left wall. It stood next to a partly ajar metal door that led to someplace dark. Malice was nowhere to be seen.

I waited almost a full minute before I determined it was safe to enter the room. My ears were alert but they did not pick up any sounds of movement in the building but for the usual groans of brick and wood and glass piled on top of each other. As I entered the space my body was tense, ready to spring at any sign of movement from any direction, but nothing came at me. It seemed I was alone in the room after I checked what was behind the metal door, realizing it was some kind of old freezer storage unit.

But Malice had a way of creeping up on you.

"Why do you look so sad?" a voice asked, and I glanced upwards, realizing for the first time that there was a hole in the ceiling. I cursed myself for not having noticed it earlier, but it had been hidden in the shadows. Two long legs were now dangling from it, swinging back and forth like a little girl sitting on a swing.

"Malice," I stated, her name a form of greeting. I took a step back from the hole, realizing she could have easily had the element of surprise if she had not spoken.

The legs grew longer as she jumped through the hole, her feet sending up a cloud of dust as they landed hard against the floorboards. Malice stood before me, a sly grin on her face, looking almost exactly the same as I remembered her. She was still tall and slender, her long blonde hair framing a face that would be considered angelic if not for eyes that burned with blue fire. The only thing that had changed was her wardrobe. The black clothes and metal chains around her wrists and neck had been replaced with dark jeans and a brown leather jacket.

"Hi Mercy," she said, stepping forward. "You remember me, don't you?

"Of course I remember you, Malice." I kept my voice low, calm, hoping not to set her off. I knew better than most about the crazy switch hidden somewhere inside of her. Once it was flicked on it was hard to turn off again.

"Well, you don't seem very happy to see me."

"The last time we saw each other you stabbed me with a knife and tried to burn me to death. Excuse me if I'm less than ecstatic," I grumbled.

She laughed, the high-pitched sound echoing off the walls and making it seem like there were multiples of her in the room. "Oh, Mercy, you're always such a riot." She moved closer and I felt my hand twitch, the appendage ready to grab for the gun at the small of my back at a moment's notice.

She seemed to catch the movement, registering what it meant and stopping dead in her tracks. Her expression turned into a frown, though I could tell it wasn't a sincere one. "You don't trust me, Mercy?" she asked with feigned hurt. "After all we've been through together? After all I've done for you?"

"What have you done for me that you haven't ruined?"

She clucked her tongue as she shook her head from side to side. "So ungrateful. I save your life and you don't even say thank you?"

"I've saved your life as many times as you've saved mine. As many times as you've tried to take my life too. We're even. We've been even for years."

"Nuh uh." She wagged a finger at me. "How do you think you ended up with Caleb in that shithole he calls his home? Do you think you dragged your sorry ass there all by yourself?"

I couldn't help but furrow my brow. "Caleb never told me who brought me there. You mean you-?"

"God, you should have seen the way I found you," she laughed. "All broken down and leaking on that boat. I thought you were dead, too, when I first saw you. But then the medic said you had a pulse, and I knew then and there that you were going to live. You always were the type to cling onto life, no matter what it costs you. Or the people around you."

I ignored her last remark, knowing she wanted to get some kind of reaction out of me. She had always enjoyed when I had gotten angry. "You were working with the Feds?" I asked, trying to imagine anyone stupid enough to let a psychopath like her into a highly guarded elite force of the United States of America.

She smiled, as if she knew what I was thinking. "I can be quite a good actress when I want to be, Mercy. And your father had a lot of connections."

Of course. John must have helped her get the position. It was probably him who demanded she take it. When critical evidence against him went missing, who would blame the gorgeous, young blonde?

"So let me get this straight," I said after taking a deep breath. "You came onto the crime scene because you knew it was connected to John, and when you found me alive you did what? You _saved_ me?" I let out a scoff. "Why do I find that hard to believe?"

"Despite your belief that I hate your guts, I still owed you one, didn't I?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Owed me one?"

"For the whole stabbing you and almost setting you on fire thing," she explained, flipping a hand through the air and dismissing the mishap like it had been a simple misdemeanor. "Isn't that how our relationship has always worked? We're always trying to kill each other and we're always failing. I really quite like it." She leaned in and whispered, "It's like a game."

"I didn't know we were playing that kind of game," I said, but I supposed it was true. How many times had Malice tried to kill me, and how many times had I returned the favor once she failed? But then we always ended up saving each other, perhaps in the name of penance. It had been a fucked up relationship, to say the least, and it still was.

"Do you know why we did it?" she asked, and I found myself shaking my head in response as she turned her back and walked over to the table pushed up against the wall. "We were like siblings, Mercy. Always competing for daddy's approval." She turned around and leaned against the piece of furniture, the bottom of her palms digging into its edge. "You were always John's favourite, though."

"I think he liked you plenty, Malice."

"Why, because he fucked me?" The woman let out another laugh. ""Well, John always did have a thing for blondes. You know that. Too bad you've always been into the brunettes. Didn't get daddy's genes there, huh?"

I made sure my expression remained the same throughout our entire exchange. If there was one thing I knew about Malice, it was her ability to fuck with peoples' minds. I didn't want to give her any leverage.

"You know, you're the reason why I kept dying my hair back then." She was examining a strand of her blonde hair, a piece held delicately between her fingers. "You liked me because I was a brunette. That's the only reason you fucked me, just like John's only reason was because I was a blonde. He never noticed me before I stopped dying it, and you never noticed me afterwards. Unless I was trying to kill you, of course."

I looked down at the floor, not sure how to respond to Malice's disillusions. "That's not the reason, Malice. But it doesn't matter anymore. It's in the past."

"I know. _Everything_ is in the past. That's what I'm always being told by you. In fact, I still remember the first time you told me that. Now, when was it again?" She clapped her hands together. "Aha! It was more than ten years ago. The first time I saw you kill someone. Remember? I walked in on you slitting that bookie's throat in the back of Mikey's Diner. You got his blood all in the pancake batter, and when I asked you if you felt any guilt about it, you just told me it was in the past. Like it didn't even fucking matter that your hands were covered in some guy's blood who probably had a family somewhere who was going to miss him." She was grinning "You are such a _sick fuck_ , Mercy."

I stared at her for a long, hard moment, that grin never leaving her face. "Is that what screwed you up?" I asked her. "Was what I did... What I brought you into... Was that what made you this way?"

"Oh, Mercy. If you're asking if you should be held responsible for the life I lead now and the lives I've taken, you don't have to worry. I was fucked up _long_ before you came along."

"It's not because you owed me one," I said, referring to her having pulled me off of that sinking ship. "That's not how the game was ever played. We never owed each other anything after we failed killing one another."

She smiled. "Of course it's not because I owed you."

"Then why save me? Why go through the trouble? I'm sure you couldn't return to your comfy job in the FBI after pulling that one off."

"No, but it doesn't really matter. John didn't need me to play that part anymore. John was dead. His little stepson took care of that."

I felt my heartbeat quicken as Sam was mentioned. Just the idea that Malice knew who he was… It put me on edge. I had never been under the illusion that Sam was safe, especially when he seemed hell bent on putting himself on every hit list in the city, but Malice was the last person on the planet I wanted to take an interest in him. I knew what she was capable of.

Luckily, I was able to hide any panic I felt at the idea, and Malice carried on without notice. "I saved you because _that's_ the main point of the game. There are only two players. Like chess. No one's going to kill you but me, Mercy."

"Is that what this is?" I asked, turning my body to follow her as she slowly walked around the edge of the room. "A game of chess? Never really had the patience for it."

"I know," she said. "You were never very good at thinking two steps ahead. That's one of your flaws. It's always about the moment, for you, Mercy."

She took something out of her pocket. It looked like some sort of metal pen, though short in length and with no tip to write with. All it had was the "clicky" thing on the top. She glanced at the device before returning her gaze to me. "John's dead, but that doesn't mean the game's over."

"What do you want?" I asked her, knowing she was planning something.

But she didn't answer me. "This is chess, Mercy, whether you like it or not." She was grinning like a demon. "And I'm calling _check_."

That's when I noticed the reason for her milling about. Malice had positioned herself by the door leading into the old cold storage room. The one with a heavy duty door that would easily protect her if, say, a few explosions were to occur in the room we were standing in.

I reacted on instinct, trusting my body to lead me out of this mess. As I saw Malice twirl around and slip into the cold storage room, I didn't wait to watch her close the door. Instead, I was already running to the nearest window. I knew it was to my right, perhaps three meters away. I was on the third floor, which meant roughly a 30 foot drop to a narrow side street below. Those weren't great odds, but it was better than being blown to pieces by-

The relative quiet was ripped to shreds by the sound of an explosion, and a blast of heat pounded me in the back as I pushed off the ground and threw myself towards the window. The glass shattered, though I only knew this because I saw and felt it – the noise of the explosion overrode everything else.

Then I was falling. I caught a glimpse of the sidewalk, but I realized that directly below me was a large recycling bin full of folded cardboard boxes. My mind did the calculations fast. I knew I would land in the bin, but I also knew it wouldn't be as soft a landing as I would like. Some part of my body was going to be hitting the metal lip, but there was no time to decide which one.

A burst of pain exploded through my shoulder and I knew immediately that something was damaged. The force caused my body to flip and my head hit the side of the bin as the rest of my body landed amongst the cardboard. The material cushioned my fall, but it was nothing close to landing on feathered pillows. I still felt the impact ricochet throughout my entire body, jarring my teeth and bones.

And if I still knew Malice, I knew she would be leaning out of that window with a glock in her hand to finish the job in a matter of seconds. There was no time for me to assess my condition. As I used my uninjured arm to push myself up, I was relieved to find my legs supported my weight, although not happily. Exiting the bin was easier than I expected, the pile of boxes almost reaching the brim on one side. I climbed the cardboard hill and jumped out, the jolt that went through my body as my feet hit the asphalt nothing compared to my earlier fall.

I took off for the end of the side road, and sure enough, as soon as I began to run there was the sound of a gunshot behind me. It must have hit the recycling bin, because the bullet made a loud _ping_ sound. I didn't waste time looking up and over my shoulder at Malice. Instead, I changed my direction sporadically, zigzagging across the street in an attempt to stop the woman from hitting her target.

My heartbeat remained fast but steady as my body continued to take action, the sound of bullets flying around me only causing my feet to move quicker. Merely seconds passed before I was darting around the corner and onto the main street. Luckily the road was still relatively deserted, only a homeless woman on the opposite sidewalk witnessing the explosion of brick near my head as a bullet hit the edge of the building I had taken cover behind. Her grey, sunken eyes met mine for a moment, but then she was calmly gathering up the cans she had stolen from recycling bins and shuffling away. Following her actions would probably be a good idea, I thought to myself. I didn't know how badly I had been hurt, adrenaline coursing through my body and sending me on a painkiller high, but I knew I was in no condition to go up against Malice. Not now.

Supporting my injured arm, I began to jog down the street. Malice would take her time, if she even came after me at all. That's how we played. She had moved her piece on the game board, but it was my turn now. She would have to wait for my move. Not that I was interested in making one. I thought Malice and I had put this game to rest years ago, but apparently I had been wrong.

I just prayed I could keep all my pieces on the chessboard safe.


	8. Chapter 8

/

" _I'll just dance until the pain goes away_."

\- Acid Rain, _Mario M_

_/_

"Look, Jerry, there's no need to worry. We've got the guy on multiple charges. There's no way he's going to get off on all of them. Even if only one sticks we'll have him in deep enough shit to offer him a deal." I shrugged, even though Jerry couldn't see the gesture over the phone. "And who knows, maybe we'll get lucky and he'll tell us who Azazel is."

Jerry said something sarcastic on the other end of the line and I chuckled. "I prefer to be an optimist. I'll see you tomorrow in court."

I reached my floor just as I finished the call, the elevator doors opening to reveal the lavender coloured walls of the hallway. I had quite the urge to see Jess. She seemed to be the only thing that could calm my nerves, and right now I was almost jumping out of my skin.

She was in the kitchen when I entered our apartment, wrapping up leftovers. Chicken parmesan. She stopped when she saw me, smiling. "Just in time. Here's dinner for tonight if you're hungry."

I was starved. I held out a hand and she took it, entering my arms as I held her close. Her hair smelt like vanilla and I breathed the scent in. "You're nervous about tomorrow, aren't you?" she asked me, her voice muffled by my coat.

I nodded my head. "I wish I could tell you more about it. It's not a big case, but it might get us one step closer to the behemoth of cases."

Jess drew back and looked up at me. "You're going to do great. You haven't stayed up all these nights for nothing, right?"

I wished that I could tell her my sleepless nights hadn't all been due to the dedication I held for my work, but that wasn't a possibility. Jess had finally stopped asking about 'Marshall', the old family friend, and I wasn't about to bring the subject up again.

"You think it's going to be busy at the hospital tonight?" I asked instead, making my way to the chicken parmesan.

"Well, it is Friday. I suspect there will be more than a few drunk-related accidents to keep me busy."

I grabbed a plate from the cupboard and heaped my dinner onto it. "Try not to get puked on."

Jess laughed. "Fingers crossed that this will be the first time it _doesn't_ happen. There's some cheesecake still in the fridge if you feel like some desert." I slid my plate into the microwave and set it for two minutes. "Oh, and before I forget, there's a guest sleeping in the guestroom."

I was surprised. "A guest?"

"Yes, a friend of mine," Jess responded, obviously trying to sound casual as if this kind of thing happened all of the time. "He's just going to be staying the night. He locked himself out of his place and hit his head when trying to climb through a window. I thought it would be best if he had someone keeping tabs on him tonight. He's got a nasty concussion."

She said all of this while slipping into her coat and grabbing her purse. I tried to process the information quickly, wondering how Jess could have already made a friend she was close enough with to allow to stay over. And a _male_ friend, at that. I didn't like the idea, but I nodded my head like a good, understanding husband would as she kissed me on the cheek. "I would have called in sick but they're already short on staff with Lisa having to get her appendix removed. Would you be able to keep an eye on him? Just check up on him every so often."

I was about to ask another question, to get a better explanation of the circumstances, but she was already out the door. I stood in the kitchen, not exactly sure what to do. There was a stranger sleeping in my guestroom, and it was now my duty to make sure he didn't die. I pondered this bizarre scenario I was suddenly in as I waited for the microwave to beep. The food smelled good as I set it on the table and my stomach rumbled in response, but I couldn't eat just yet.

I was curious to see who Jess' friend was. A co-worker from the hospital? Someone she knew from Los Angeles or Stanford? How old was he? Was he better looking than me?

I noticed the door to the guestroom was partly ajar as I entered the hallway. I didn't hesitate before I pushed the door open, and as it swung inwards it revealed a bed with a body lying on its surface. The man was sleeping, his chest rising and falling with the stable slowness that could only belong to slumber. Jess and I hadn't had time to buy linen for the guestroom, so he was sprawled out on the bare mattress. Still, Jess had taken it upon herself to drape a blanket over him and stuff a pillow beneath his head.

I made sure to be quiet as I stepped into the room, walking slowly to the edge of the bed. I leaned over and-

I couldn't get out of that room fast enough. Stumbling into the hallway, I stood there for a moment, eyes wide and heart pounding as I tried to make sense of the face I had seen. Why was- What had- This was impossible.

I made my way to the kitchen and snatched my cell phone from the table, dialling the top person on my speed dial. She picked up before the first ring was over, as if she had been expecting the call.

"Jess, what the fuck were you thinking?"

"Sam, calm down. Marshall was-"

"Did he break into the apartment or something? Did he say anything to you?"

"What? No, Sam, listen. He was waiting outside of our apartment building and he was in pretty bad shape, so I invited him up and treated him. I ama nurse after all, remember?"

"Jess, listen, you don't understand. You can't just-"

"No, Sam, you listen. What could Marshall have done that was so bad you can't even help him when he needs it? I don't care if he's not your friend anymore. The fact remains that he wasyour friend at some point, so recall that moment and play nice, all right? I'm getting on the subway. I'll be back at noon."

The phone clicked off and the line went dead. I couldn't believe my fiancée had just hung up on me. The last time she had done that was when I had accidentally ruined her best friend's surprise party back in Stanford when we had first started dating.

I stood in the silence of the kitchen, the phone in my hand being slowly crushed as I tried to figure out what could have possibly possessed Jess to allow her to think it was a good idea to invite Dean up to our apartment. Had she not heard when I had told him never to come back?

Fortunately, I had accepted years ago that I would never understand women or the motives behind their actions, and my mind moved on to more pressing issues. Like the fact that there was an admitted assassin passed out in my guestroom. It wasn't like I could just wake him up and drag him outside. I didn't really know who the man sleeping on that bed was.

I continued to panic for several more minutes before I finally decided that the only solution was to call the police. I looked at my cell phone, my fingers ready to dial 911. But what would I say to them? How would I explain that there was a convicted assassin sleeping in my apartment when said assassin was apparently dead? And how was I going to do that without revealing that I was actually Sam Winchester, stepson of the notorious criminal John Winchester, not uprising lawyer Sam Campbell who graduated first in his class at Stanford University? Only the FBI held that information.

I told myself that none of that mattered, that Dean belonged behind bars and I would figure everything else out afterwards, but I still couldn't dial the number. That's when I realized what was really holding me back. There were too many questions. There were still way too many questions that needed answering. If Dean was taken into custody I would never get the chance to ask them.

I re-entered the guestroom hesitantly. I had played out scenarios in my head of meeting Dean again after he had paid me his last visit, but none of them had involved him passed out in my apartment. I didn't know what to do. I recalled Jess telling me he had been in bad shape, and for the first time I noticed that his arms were littered with cuts, as if he had been in a fight with a broken mirror. Jess had bandaged most of them, but a few stood stark against his pale skin. I didn't want to stare at them for long. I didn't want to know how he had received them. I didn't want to know why he was injured and lying in my guestroom. I just wanted him out.

I considered shaking him awake but the thought of facing him right now was slightly overwhelming. So instead I grabbed a chair from the kitchen and placed it next to his bed. I determined I would wait until he woke up and then I would question him. Or maybe give in and call the cops after all.

As I waited I tried not to look at his face, but it was difficult not to. I watched his chest for awhile, counting each time it rose. Half of me expected it to remain still the next time, but each time he breathed in, shoving it in my face that he really was alive. After awhile I gave in and finally turned my gaze to his face. I recalled the moment I had first seen him, when I had opened my eyes on that beach after nearly drowning to death. My first thought had been that Dean was an angel. It was funny how wrong first impressions could actually be.

My sight slowly moved down his face, from his closed lids to his nose to his lips. They lingered there for a moment, but then I was tearing my gaze away and shaking my head. I stood up, the chair making a screeching sound as it was pushed back against the wooden floor, but Dean didn't even stir. My thoughts were spinning, not coping well with this sudden intrusion on my life. I had to leave the room again.

_/_

Pain was a fucking bitch. She always had been and always would be. I knew she was necessary for basic survival, but sometimes she just overdid it. Like right now. The headache splitting my skull from one side to the other was anything but gentle, and I heard myself groan as I slowly awoke from unconsciousness. I didn't know how long I had been out, but the room was still dark when I opened my eyes.

It took me all of two seconds to remember why the ceiling was so unfamiliar. This was a guestroom. I was a guest here. Jessica Moore's guest, soon to be Jessica Campbell, fiancéeof Sam Campbell, alias of Sam Winchester. A bizarre set of events had taken place after Malice had tried to kill me, landing me in this room. I tried to recall specifically where my mistake had been. How had I really allowed myself to be suckered into staying the night in the one place I was least likely to be welcomed?

It hadn't been because of the cold, I recalled. But I had been cold. Crouching there, shivering against the brick wall, wondering how I had ended up in front of Sam's apartment again. The building was several blocks from the place I had met Malice, yet somehow I had managed to stumble my way to it, half out of my mind...

For the past few minutes I had been swallowing almost constantly, my saliva glands working overtime. I knew it wasn't because I was hungry and I could smell someone's dinner cooking. In fact, I knew that if I tried to eat anything right now I would probably be heaving it back up in a second. I felt sick to my stomach, the nausea making me glance towards the huddle of bushes to my left. But I fought the feeling, leaning back against the wall.

God, why were the street lights so bright? Even though I was crouching in partial darkness it felt as if I was standing in the middle of a football stadium. The lights were burning my retinas, sending daggers of pain through my head.

"Fuck…" I cursed beneath my breath. I realized I probably had a concussion. I had knocked my head pretty hard back there, and the nausea and sensitivity to light were telltale symptoms. I wasn't exactly new to head injuries.

Then I was emptying the contents of my stomach against the wall. There wasn't much, and soon I was dry heaving. It was minutes before the rolling waves of nausea finally receded and I was able to stand up straight. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, the other pressed against my midsection as if to beg it to calm down, I decided I needed to go back to my apartment despite the risk that Malice knew of it. I couldn't hide out here for much longer. Why had I come here in the first place?

I turned around, and that's when I realized I wasn't alone. _What is it with me and blondes today?_ I thought to myself.

"Marshall?" Jess sounded surprised as she looked me up and down. "Are you all right? I heard someone being sick and I…" She trailed off. "Do you… Do you remember me? I'm Sam's fiancée. We met the other-"

"I remember you," I said quickly. I really wasn't in the mood to have this conversation right now. Facing Sam's fiancée on a normal day was hard enough, but adding a concussion and a dislocated shoulder to the party was downright cruel.

She seemed to hesitate, and I realized the retching had caused my voice to turn to gravel. Standing partially in the shadows probably made me appear even more threatening. I wondered if she was frightened.

"Are you here to see Sam?" she asked, but as far as I could tell there was not a hint of fear in her words. "He's at the office now, but he should be home in an hour. You can wait upstairs if you like."

I let out a hollow laugh, the act causing my whole body to throb anew. "Sam doesn't really want anything to do with me at the moment."

Jess put her hands on her hips. She was wearing the cream coloured coat she had been in the night I had first met her. "I don't know much about you, Marshall, and I don't know the history you have with my fiancé. That being said…" she sighed. "I also know how stubborn Sam can be. There's been one or two occasions in the past where he's held a grudge against me for longer than appropriate. The only way to get through to him sometimes is to push. Not a lot, just…" She shrugged. "A little."

I fought back the urge to vomit again as I thought over her words. Jess probably thought we had had a typical falling out between friends that had gone unresolved for years. She couldn't possibly know how far the rabbit hole really went.

"Thank you, really, but…" I searched for the right words. "Me and Sam, we… Well, I…" I met her eyes, a sinking feeling replacing the queasy sensation in my stomach. "I don't think Sam will ever forgive me for what I've done."

Jess seemed to contemplate that for a few moments, standing in silence. "Fair enough," she finally said. "But I still insist you come up to the apartment. You can come as _my_ guest. I'll make us some tea to settle your stomach."

"Really, that's nice of you, but-"

"Marshall, I'm a nurse, and right now you don't look so hot."

I glanced down at myself, at the fist clenched by my stomach and the bleeding slivers covering my arms. I must have cut myself up pretty badly when I jumped through the window earlier. I hadn't even realized until now. I probably looked like a mess.

"Like I said, Sam won't be back for an hour. I can have you fixed up in twenty minutes."

My initial reaction was to refuse and get myself as far away as possible, but something stopped me. I stared at the woman before me, wondering what the catch was. Were there actually people like this in the world? Those who helped you without a question or an expectation of something in return or even a care for their own safety? "Yeah, sure," I said before I could stop myself, already regretting it. "That would be great."

It took all my concentration not to groan or grunt while riding the elevator. Jess talked about New York and the market she had gone to the other day. She said she was planning to visit the Statue of Liberty in the spring, when it was warmer. She was also excited to see Time Square. She just hadn't had enough time yet to be a proper tourist.

It wasn't until she had invited me into her bathroom and was cleaning the cuts on my arms that she asked, "Bar fight?"

I gave an unsure smile, relieved that she had given me an explanation for my injuries before I had to scramble to make one up. "Yeah, too much to drink and I guess I ended up making some enemies. Got pushed through a window."

"That would explain the cuts and the vomiting," Jess said as she finished wrapping the last cut. She placed the unused bandages on the counter. "How much did you have to drink?"

"Enough," I said, hoping she wouldn't notice that I smelt like a campfire instead of alcohol.

She cocked her head to the side and I could tell she wasn't buying it. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked, and suddenly she was reaching a hand up to my face.

I took a step back. "I'm fine," I assured her. "Honest."

That look didn't vanish from her face though, and I knew she wasn't convinced. "Your eyes are unfocused and your hand-eye coordination is off, but it doesn't seem like you've been drinking. Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

"I… uh…"

_I'm fine, thank you. I didn't just jump out of a window an hour ago to avoid being blown into a thousand pieces and hit my head on a metal bin. And my shoulder isn't burning like someone's trying to tear the limb from my body. All good on this front, sweetheart. Don't have to worry about me._

"Is your shoulder okay?" she asked me. I blinked a few times, wondering if she had read my mind. "I ask because you seem to be avoiding moving it. Did you injure it during the bar fight?"

I kept the curse forming in my thoughts to myself. She was waiting patiently for my response, but I found I couldn't open my mouth. God, why couldn't I answer her? In my daily life I told lies more than I told the truth. They came naturally to me. Most of the time I didn't even have to think twice before telling one. Sometimes I told them just for fun. But here this woman was, asking me if I was okay, and I couldn't even lie and tell her I was just dandy. Maybe it was the genuine concern on her face. I couldn't understand why she would look at me like that. I was a stranger to her. Why did she care about my well being?

_This is the kind of person Sam deserves,_ I thought to myself, feeling more miserable by the second.

"Do you mind if I take a look?" She was clearly waiting for my response. I knew if I told her no she probably wouldn't push it much further. She would respect my wishes. But suddenly I felt too tired to put up a front. It wasn't a physical thing – my body was still on edge from my meeting with Malice and the constant pain didn't do much to quench the feeling – it was more of a mental tiredness. I hadn't slept in the last 48 hours, and the concussion was making my thought process sluggish. Besides, I had already entered the lion's den.

"Sure," I found myself saying, giving into the woman for the second time that night. I tried to relax my body as I began to unbutton my shirt but didn't succeed much. "I'm pretty sure I dislocated it."

She didn't have a comment as she waited for me to remove my shirt. I was wearing a dark teal T-shirt beneath it, and as I began the arduous task of getting it over my head with a non-functional shoulder, she quickly came to the aid.

"Here, let me help you," she said, and a moment later I was out of the thing. She immediately began to examine my shoulder, prodding the joint here and there with gentle hands, the skin black and blue where the dislocated joint popped out. She stepped back. "Yep, it's definitely dislocated. You could go to the hospital, or I could pop it back in for you right now. I've done it before, and it would save you the trip and the time and the money."

She didn't seem to give the scars on my body any particular interest. Not even the long gash that ran from my right collarbone to the centre of my chest or the bullet hole in my abdomen. "Yeah, that would be… That would be great."

I instinctively braced myself on the bathroom counter, bending forward so that she could reach my shoulder. I'd sustained dislocated shoulders several times in the past and was not new to the procedure.

"All right," she said, placing one hand on the front of my shoulder and the other on my back. "On three."

I mentally braced myself for the pain, knowing it was going to hurt like a bitch. "One," she said, and I fought the urge to bite my lip, hating to have to wait out the countdown. But then pain was blossoming from my shoulder and I heard a _pop_ as my joint was put back into place. I immediately straightened up and strode away, walking it off instead of yelling.

"Not bad," she laughed as I turned around again, the pain having lessened dramatically. "I've done that to tough bikers before, with their tattoos and leather jackets, and all of them pretty much cried like babies. I think you're the first to keep it in."

I couldn't help but chuckle with her, the image of a crying Hell's Angel appearing in my mind. "Yeah, well…" I shrugged, and then immediately regretted it.

"Mind if I ask how you _really_ injured yourself?" She said, but it didn't feel as if she was prying. It was more out of general curiosity.

"It's embarrassing, really," I found myself answering, finally seeming to regain my ability to lie. "I locked myself out of my apartment and I tried to climb in through the window. I ended up slipping and falling onto a garbage bin that must have had some broken glass inside. Hit my head and shoulder on the way." I tried to look bashful but didn't know if I succeeded. "A bar fight just sounded cooler."

"We all have our blonde moments." She smiled, and I had to appreciate her sense of humour. "Do you live alone?"

"Yeah. Just me."

"Well if you're not going to go to the hospital I'd feel a lot better if someone was with you to make sure you don't have any complications. Concussions are tricky. Usually they're fairly harmless, but they can also be a lot worse than they look. You can stay here for the night if you like. We have a guestroom you could use, and that way I won't be worried that you're passed out on your kitchen floor."

I suddenly wondered why Sam was lying to Jess. Maybe he wanted to protect her from the truth. Maybe he was afraid she would run away if she discovered what his real past looked like. But Jess was strong. I could see the strength in her now. It wasn't obvious upon sight, but the calm level-headedness she was displaying now made me think that she could handle whatever Sam decided to tell her. Sam probably thought the same thing – he was getting married to the woman, after all – which made me curious as to the real reason he wasn't telling her. Didn't he know he was increasing the chances of something bad happening to her by not spilling the beans? What did it accomplish?

"Dean?" I realized I hadn't answered her yet.

"Sam would never-"

"Never mind Sam. This is my apartment too, and right now you're unofficially my patient. I really do insist that you stay in the guestroom tonight. You won't even have to see Sam."

"If he finds out I'm here, he'll-"

"Let me deal with it, okay? Rest is the best treatment for a concussion, so if you want to feel better you shouldn't refuse my offer. There's also the fact that I'd be very upset if you did."

I looked at the woman, wondering how I was supposed to argue. The edge I had gotten from the reconnection of my shoulder had lessened and I was suddenly too tired to think, so I said, "Uh, yeah. Sounds good. Thanks."

She smiled at me and I knew it was genuine. That's when I realized I couldn't hate her. And wasn't that just a kick in the nuts?

"That's a cool tattoo you have, by the way" she commented. I didn't know what she was talking about for a moment, but then I remembered the angel wings on my back. I rarely got a glimpse of the thing due to its placement on my body, but every time I did I recalled my past. In a quick succession of memories I remembered what my nickname had been. The Angel of Mercy. No one had called me that for a while. Only Malice. I had always been Mercy to her.

"I always found angels fascinating," Jess said, tearing me from my thoughts. "I'm not exactly religious, but it's nice to think we all have a guardian angel, isn't it?" I didn't answer her, but before the silence grew too long she laughed. "Though yours seems to be taking the night off. Let me get you a blanket."

A guardian angel… If they really existed, mine seemed to have quit ages ago. Probably took one look at me and thought 'no fucking way' before flying off to some easier job. That's what I was thinking when I heard the sound of something crashing in the kitchen followed by someone cursing. It was not a female voice, which meant it was not Jessica out there.

I sat up, memories of the time I had spent with Jess dissipating from my mind. I noticed for the first time that someone had dragged a chair to the side of the bed. Jess had told me I wouldn't even see Sam, but… Could the woman have lied? I didn't know whether to hate or love her for this opportunity.

I threw the blanket off of me and got up, making my way into the hallway. I didn't give any effort into making my footsteps light and soundless, so by the time I made it into the kitchen Sam was already facing me, a slightly taken aback expression on his face. That quickly transformed into a scowl.

"You son of a bitch," he growled, shutting the fridge door he had opened. "You've got a lot of explaining to do."


	9. Chapter 9

/

" _Because I want you so much, but I hate your guts._ "

\- _Landfill_ , Daughter

/

"You son of a bitch," I spat out, because they were the first words to come to my mind when I saw him. "You've got a lot of explaining to do."

Dean didn't respond. He stood in the entrance way and just… he just stared. At me. As if he was behind some sound-proof wall that had stopped him from hearing my words. That only infuriated me more. I could feel my hands clenching into fists by my sides, nails digging into the skin of my palms.

Despite my anger, I couldn't help but notice that Dean looked like crap now that he was standing in the light of the kitchen. The shadows under his eyes were dark, almost like bruises. His skin was pale, even against the white bandages that wrapped around his forearms. There was a small cut near the outer edge of his left eye that I hadn't noticed before. Now that he was no longer asleep his expression was tight and concealed, his jaw clenched ever so slightly, his eyebrows pulled down a fraction.

"What are you doing here?" I finally broke the silence. I didn't like his eyes on me. I wanted him to look away.

He blinked, but his stare did not waver. When he finally spoke it was not an answer. "Where's your fiancée?"

"Don't avoid the question. Why are you here?"

"Didn't Jess tell you?" he asked.

I was annoyed that my fiancée was the main focus of our conversation thus far. "I know you fed her bullshit," I said quickly. Harshly. "Tell me why the hell you came back here when I told you to stay away."

Dean sighed heavily, his eyes finally breaking away, shifting to the left. "Look, I didn't want to come up here, but Jess insisted. I couldn't turn the girl down."

"Stop _lying_ to me," I shouted, not caring that I had raised my voice. "And stay the hell away from Jess. She's innocent in all of this. I'll call the police if you go near her again."

Dean let out a bark of laughter. "The police? Sam, you can't be that naive."

I scowled, not entirely sure what he meant but taking a guess. "The police aren't _all_ corrupt or worthless."

He shrugged, smirking, taking a step forward and to the side. His hip was leaning against the counter top now, his arms crossed over his chest. "Think what you want, but I don't know how seriously they're going to take you when you tell them a dead man is harassing you.

I had nothing to say to that, so instead I said, "Just stay away from Jess. She doesn't know anything."

Dean gave me a curious look, his head tilting to the side. He righted his posture, taking a few slow steps towards me until he was just two feet away. I held my breath as I watched him get closer. "Are you really not planning to tell her the truth about me?" he asked. "Aren't you getting married? Or is that how it's done these days? Start a marriage off by lying to each other."

I punched him in the face. I hadn't planned to, but his head whipped to the side as my fist connected with his chin, and the _crack_ it made was a very satisfying sound. I had punched him before, but a lot of time had passed between then and now. Since that moment seven years ago, I had grown several inches and put on dozens of pounds of muscle. I was no longer the scrawny teenage boy I had been when we had first met. I was a man now, and Dean had to catch himself on the kitchen table as his body followed the motion of his head.

He placed a hand against his bruised jaw. "Guess I deserved that."

"You're fucking right you did."

He straightened up and worked his jaw, grimacing in pain. "You've got more upper body strength than I gave you credit for, Sammy."

"I'm not a kid anymore," was my curt reply. "And don't call me Sammy."

He dropped his hand to his side. "You may have given me another concussion."

"Well, you're not sleeping here again tonight."

"I wasn't planning on it."

Silence stretched between us as we stared at each other, the sudden punch making us both unsure of how to carry on the conversation. I knew there were so many questions I wanted to ask him, but my pride did not allow me to. I didn't feel it was my job to be asking, because I knew it was his job to be explaining. But he just continued to stare, as if he was waiting for me to say something first.

He finally opened his mouth, but before he could let out a word I was racing to talk. I suddenly couldn't control myself. "They said really bad things about you, Dean." I ran a hand down my face, not wanting to look at him as I felt my anger transform into something else; something a little less anger and a little more hurt. "At first I didn't want to believe them, I avoided all the newspapers and the news channels, but I… The things you've done…"

Dean's voice was low and edgy. "You always knew who I was, Sam. You knew it the instant I told you I killed the two guys who raped you." I cringed at the memory, but Dean didn't slow down. "You knew it when I shot Meg in the head and didn't even flinch. You always knew I was a killer."

"That's not true," I objected. "I didn't know you at all. You were always just a stranger with amnesia to me, and by the time you became something else… I already thought you were dead."

He didn't respond, and when the silence stretched on again, I looked up. His eyes were fixated on me, a small crease between them. "Something else?" he repeated.

I sighed, my sight shifting to the side, focusing on the steel microwave in the corner of the room instead of his face. "That's all in the past now, Dean."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him turn his back to me, his shoulders stiffening. "The past isn't something you can just forget. Take it from a guy who had amnesia."

I scoffed, rolling my eyes as I found it safe to return my gaze to him now that he wasn't facing me. "That makes no sense."

He looked over his shoulder, that familiar smirk playing on his lips. For a moment it was as if I was seven years younger, still an awkward teenager, Dean still the stranger I had met on the shore of a lake. And for a moment I believed he could still be that stranger, but then I remembered all I had learnt about him, and I realized I would never be able to see him the same way I once had.

I seemed to have lost myself in thought, because when I returned to the moment Dean was no longer smirking. That crease between his eyebrows had deepened, his lips now turned down into a frown. I had the strange fear that he was reading my thoughts, but then he turned away again and I felt like a silly child for having entertained the idea.

"I don't know why you're here, Dean," I said, already exhausted by the words we had exchanged. It was as if I had used up all the anger and hurt that had fuelled me just moments ago. The boiling emotions had receded to a low simmer, and in their place was only exhaustion. I knew I wouldn't be getting any answers from Dean tonight. I'm not sure I even wanted them. "I don't even care anymore. I just want you to leave."

I suddenly remembered that I had an important meeting tomorrow morning. The thought struck me as odd, like it was something that didn't belong in my head. But that wasn't right; those were the kinds of thoughts that _should_ have been concerning me right now, not whether or not Dean was going to listen to me and leave the apartment, or how that was going to make me feel. It was as if Dean's presence had dragged me back into my old life, where I wasn't a lawyer or a fiancé or even an adult, but just a scared kid, alone and inexperienced, who wanted to believe that the man standing before him was good.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I heard myself ask, the question leaving my mouth without thought.

Dean hadn't responded to my earlier words, but he frowned now. "Tell you what?"

"That you weren't dead. You had seven years to tell me. Why now?"

He turned to face me fully again, his stare firm. "Because it seems like you're trying to get yourself killed, Sam. You may not know it yet, but you and your lawyer friends are beginning to piss off a lot of people, and I don't mean the civil type. If you continue the way you've been going, you're going to find a bullet in your back sooner than later."

It was no secret that criminal lawyers sometimes ended up in unfortunate accidents. I had acknowledged the risks years ago, for you could never really expect to be safe when you surrounded yourself with bad people: criminals, murderers, soulless men and women who would perform atrocities just to benefit themselves. I had also been aware that the Azazel case was dangerous when I had accepted to be a part of it. I had been on a hit list before, when I was just an unprepared teenager, but seven years was a long time to prepare myself for the possibility that I might find myself on another list again.

That wasn't what was going through my mind right now, though. It was the fact that Dean's words had felt off. They sounded rehearsed, like he had practised them over and over again just in case I had asked such a question. It made me wonder…

"Why do you care?" I asked, because I honestly didn't know. "Why do you care whether I get myself killed or not?"

Dean's expression didn't change aside from his jaw clenching a little tighter. It was a long moment before he replied. "Because when lawyers start getting killed in a city like this, it makes it a lot harder for us criminals to do our jobs."

That was all he said, and I understood. Lawyers being killed by the very people they were trying to put away was never good news for a city. If they could be killed, who was to stop the same criminals from hurting innocent civilians? It yanked back the illusion of public safety, upsetting every law abiding citizen who had sense. What else were they expected to do but demand more police on the street? More police meant less crime, which was good for the general public but a nightmare for those committing the offences.

But once again, that was not what concerned my thoughts.

"So you didn't leave the life." It was a statement rather than a question. Since Dean had shown himself, I had always suspected that he was probably still earning a living through illegal means, but to have it confirmed was something else entirely. I felt a mixture of anger, regret, and fear bubble up inside of me, turning my words into acid. "'Who do you work for now?"

"No one."

"So you've become a freelancer now that John is gone? Killing people for the highest bid?"

Dean looked a little taken aback. "Sam, I-"

"Get the _fuck_ out of here, Dean."

"Sam, I don't kill people any-"

"I said get the fuck out of here!" I yelled, all the anger returning in a tidal wave. "I don't need your protection. I don't want anything to do with you. You're a fucking _murderer_. If I had known what you were from the start I would have had you behind bars a long time ago. You're worse than John ever was."

Something flashed across Dean's face then, but I couldn't read the expression quick enough before it vanished. I had the sudden urge to throw something at him, to push him out of my home like you frighten away a stray dog, but then he said, "You're right. You don't need my help. You're not a kid anymore."

And then he was gone. He left through the front door again, closing it behind him with a soft _click_. I did everything in my power to stop myself from collapsing against the kitchen table, my mind completely spent. I felt a deep ache in my head, like the beginning of a migraine, and I knew my stress levels were beyond unhealthy. It was only by some sort of miracle that I would fall asleep that night.

/

It was tempting. I could see her from across the street, through the window, sitting at the empty bar by herself. She had poured herself a glass of wine about twenty minutes ago and was already on her third. I wondered why she was drinking alone, but I knew it wouldn't be a good idea to ask. Besides, I didn't care. What Jo did with her life was none of my concern.

Yet here I was, standing in the shadows, watching the girl sip her glass, trying to gain the nerve to go inside. She probably wouldn't be very surprised to see me. I wasn't sure if Sam had told her about my visits, but it didn't matter. I would tell her myself. I would tell her about what an idiot I am and ask for her advice. I would tell her about the promise I had made, not to kill, and maybe she could tell Sam and convince him I've changed. I'd just have to get her on my side and maybe… Maybe then…

I shook my head, feeling my brain rattle around in my skull and the back of my head throb again. I couldn't do that. Jo had the same opinion of me as Sam did, and they were both right. I was a killer. Maybe I didn't kill any longer, but that didn't make up for the lives I had taken before.

I quickly made my way back to my car, feeling foolish for having spent twenty minutes outside of Ellen's crappy bar. I didn't need to talk to Jo. I didn't need her advice and I certainly didn't need her help. It didn't matter that Sam despised me. All that mattered was that he didn't get himself killed, and I could help him with that whether he wanted me to or not.

It took me another half an hour to get to the police department. It was well past midnight but I knew Balth was up in his office. He always stayed late, and if he was surprised when I called him to let me up, he didn't show it.

"For what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked when I entered his office.

I wasn't up for any banter tonight, so I cut to the chase. "I found the rat."

Balth raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Took your time, didn't you. How did you repay your rat for its disloyalty?"

"He's dead," I said quickly. There was no doubt in my mind that Malice had disposed of Keith Jacobs soon after she had made that call to me two days ago. He was probably rotting in a shallow grave outside of the city limits right now.

"I'm impressed," was Balth's reply. "I thought you'd gone soft for good."

I didn't feel the need to explain to Balth that I hadn't been the one to kill Keith Jacobs. I didn't need him riding my ass again on the matter.

"Don't be too impressed. We may have another problem."

Balth's pleasure disappeared. "What's the _name_ of this problem?"

"Her name's Malice. I'm not too sure what her position is in the underground at the moment, but she might know more about our business relationship than we'd like."

Balth sighed deeply, closing his eyes and shaking his head slowly. "I don't need to concern myself with petty criminals, Dean. Even if she were to make a fuss, I doubt she'd cause anything more than a small hindrance."

"She's not your average criminal, unfortunately. She used to be in the same line of work as I was. I wouldn't underestimate her."

"Please do tell me why this… this _Malice_ is suddenly a problem I may have to deal with, Dean."

I chewed the inside of my cheek for a moment, not wanting to admit that I was to blame. "We have a bit of a… A history."

"I should have known."

"She's nothing I can't handle, Balth, but I wanted to give you a heads-up, just in case."

"You inspire so much confidence."

It was clear he was being sarcastic, but I didn't snap back with a remark. Half of my mind was still focused on the conversation I had, had with Sam just two hours earlier. It was hard to think of anything else. Sam needed protecting, but I was here now because I had to look after myself too. Malice had caused a speed bump in my career path, and it was affecting me horribly. If I didn't pull in some jobs soon I wasn't going to have much of a business to run in the future.

"I heard you were looking for a crew to handle a big shipment coming in next month," I said. "I'm willing to take the job on for twenty percent of-"

Balth interrupted me before I could go on. "Oh, no, no, no, Dean. We're done."

I looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is we're done doing business. Do you even know how to run the type of business you have, Dean? Because you're fucking it up gloriously. It takes hard work and sacrifice and diligence. To be honest, I'm surprised you've lasted this long. Did you not learn anything from your father?"

I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach, but I'm not sure if it was because of Balth's words exactly. I was hearing Sam's voice now. _You're worse than John ever was_. Apparently Sam was right, at least when it came to managing a business. "I'm trying, Balth," I said, feeling tired. "I really am."

"What, did you think that filling your daddy's shoes was going to be easy?"

"That was never what I wanted."

"No? Then what the hell are you doing standing in my office?" Balth's tone was angry. "The only reason I agreed to help you, Dean, was because I knew your father. He was a good business partner. When he promised something, he got it done. No complications. No excuses. I thought that maybe he would have instilled some of his principles in you, but clearly I was wrong."

"I can manage it."

"You're telling me someone is out for you with a personal vendetta, fucking up your business, yet you still want me to keep this partnership? You've already screwed me over once. I'm not going to take the risk of it happening again."

"I told you I'll take care of it, Balth," I emphasized. He stared at me long and hard and I knew his decision was not final yet. "Please," I begged, hating myself for it. "I need this."

Balth's expression softened a fraction and it made me sick to my stomach to recognize it as pity. "Why didn't you leave when you had the chance?" he asked, the anger having left his voice. "When John died you could have disappeared without a glance back. You could have left this life behind you and no one would have come searching. Not many get that opportunity, you know."

I did know, and I had considered the option. After John's death, chaos had erupted amongst the criminal system in New York. Everyone had scurried to get their hands on a piece of the power John had left behind, and I could easily have slipped away in the confusion. No one would have noticed. They would have all thought me dead. I had almost done it, too. I knew people that could have gotten me out of the country unnoticed. Right now I could have been living in Thailand or Argentina or some other place where life would be a hell of a lot simpler; not standing here in Balth's office, practically grovelling for a second chance to disappoint.

But I had stayed. I had decided to try to make a living in this corrupt city, and for awhile I had done okay for myself. I had kept afloat even with my newfound sense of morality fucking things up, mainly because my reputation preceded me. But it seemed I no longer could rely on the same tactics, and now I was revisiting the only reason why I had gone through all this trouble in the first place.

_Sam._

I had never imagined that Sam would return to New York, but there had always been the possibility. And I had made a promise. Sam's mother was dead, but that didn't break the commitment I had made to her. I had to protect Sam. It was my job, the one thing that overrode all else. It didn't matter that the kid wanted nothing to do with me.

"I need to know you're committed to this partnership, Dean."

I made sure my voice was firm as I answered, "I am."

"Prove you're committed, then."

"How?"

Balth stepped over to a metal filing cabinet and slid open a drawer. He retrieved a beige folder and

tossed it on the desk in front of me.

"Toby Jordan. He's a lawyer at Turner & Elkins. He used to be a dirty one, but lately it looks like he's been cleaning himself up. Problem is, he knows a little too much. We can't risk him having second thoughts any longer."

I had picked up the folder and a familiar face greeted me when I opened it. Toby Jordan. The guy I had cornered in the men's washroom at Hellhound last week. Sam's co-worker. He was working the same case as Sam, which meant that my worst nightmare was coming true. If Toby already had a hit on him, what guaranteed Sam didn't? "Cleaning himself up?" I echoed, trying to keep my voice calm. "Guys like this don't clean themselves up."

"And guys like me don't give second chances. Guess this is a week of contradictions."

I barely heard Balth's remark. I was too busy recalling the conversation I had, had with Toby Jordan only a few nights ago.

_"_ _You're_ _gonna get yourself killed if you don't straighten yourself up, asshole,"_ I had said to him. _"_ _You lawyers are supposed to be upholding justice and all that crap, not slinking around with the scum of the city."_

Guess my words of advice were a lie. Straightening himself up had only put a price tag on Toby's life. Had I been responsible for Jordan's change in heart? I highly doubted it, but I couldn't push the gnawing feeling away, even as I stared Bath in the eyes and said, "If I kill him, we good?"

I had promised myself I would no longer kill, but who the fuck had I made that promise for? Sam. Sam Winchester, who didn't care about anything except for the fact that I _used_ to be a killer. And I couldn't blame him. I had been stupid to think I could become clean. Blood isn't washed away that easily.

Balth nodded his head once. "Only if you don't fuck things up again."

If I was going to break my promise, I might as well do it while protecting Sam. That would be ironic, wouldn't it? Maybe after hearing about Toby's execution, my message would finally get across to the kid. Sam would realize how much danger he was in and quit the case, or maybe it would be closed against his will. Besides, if I didn't kill Toby, he'd be killed by someone else anyway. At least this way I could stay in the loop and warn Sam if I heard his name mentioned by Balth.

"I won't fuck up," I replied, serious.

My life was so much simpler when I did what I was good at.


	10. Chapter 10

/

" _Let's have a toast for the douche bags._

_Let's have a toast for the assholes._

_Let's have a toast for the scumbags._

_Every one of them that I know._ "

\- _Run Away,_ Kanye West

/

I found Toby while he was on his way home from only god knows what. Most of my day had been spent waiting outside of his apartment building, anticipating his arrival, hoping he was alone for the night. I didn't want to have to kill him in his apartment if he came walking down the street with a woman on his arm. Shooting Toby while he slept in his bed after a night of sexercise would be easy, but it would also traumatize the poor girl who made the mistake of going home with the lawyer that night, supposing she stuck around.

I was in luck though, because as Toby emerged from down the street I saw that he was by himself, not even a cell phone held up to his ear. No complications. This would be quick and easy.

At least, that's what I had told myself.

"Upholding justice and all that crap, right?" Toby was saying, his voice higher than I remembered. The gun I had pointed at his head might have been a reason for his change in pitch. "You were right."

"People don't change," I replied, coming back to the present. My voice was a complete contrast to Toby's, low and dangerous. "Trust me. I've tried."

Since when did I have conversations with my targets? That's what I was asking myself in the dank alleyway by Toby's apartment.

"No, they do change. They _can_. I've changed. This was never who I was supposed to be. I didn't start out like this. Please! Please, I-"

"Let me rephrase that. People don't change _for the better_." As I spoke, I checked the bullets nestled in my gun's chamber for the third time that day, the _click_ echoing down the alley. Why was I stalling? If this had gone as it usually had, Toby would already be on the ground with a bullet in his head, his body almost the same temperature as the night's chilly air. "They only get worse," I continued. "They only disappoint you more."

It seemed as if Toby realized that there was no persuading his killer off the route he had chosen. The lawyer let himself drop to all–fours on the pavement, his shoulders hunched. He was about to die. "I started because of my sister," he sobbed to his uncaring audience, his head shaking back and forth. "So many crappy lawyers out there. None would take her case. I promised I wouldn't turn anyone down as long as they were innocent. Not ever. Not me."

He rose to his knees, ignoring the barrel of the gun as he stared passed it at me. "Do you know how hard it was to keep that promise?" he asked angrily. "But I did. For six years I never turned down a single person. And I was a _damn_ good lawyer. So good, I hardly ever lost a case."

I didn't want to listen to him. I didn't care. Why hadn't I already shut this man up with a bullet? It was such a simple thing, to pull the trigger and stop not only his words but his thoughts as well. I had done it a hundred times before. It had been simple, like a reflex.

"But you don't win without making some enemies. I sent the wrong person to jail and next thing I know my father's dead. Burglary, they said, but I know what really happened. Because the next day I'm being offered thousands of dollars to help get some known criminal off his charges, or else they'll kill my sister too."

His shoulders began to shake as he sobbed, a hand coming up to cover his face. "She hated me for that, my sister… I went from her hero to nothing but scum, and I could never tell her why I did it. Why I continue to do it." He's laughing through his tears now, but it's gallows humour. "She doesn't even talk to me anymore."

"Everyone has a sob story," I said after a moment. "What makes you think yours is so special?"

"It's not." His voice was so quiet I could barely make it out. He wasn't crying anymore. His words had turned cold and detached, almost like my own. "So go ahead and kill me. There's no one who's gonna miss me."

Where had I heard those words before? They were similar to the ones I had thought in my own head that night on the docks, when Sam had pointed a gun at my head, every one of his features telling me that he was prepared to pull the trigger. It was the first time that I had discovered my life was no longer based on a simple need for self-survival. I had been willing to die for the basic fact that there was no one on the planet who cared whether I let a bullet impale my brain or not. It had been the first time that I had been dependent on someone other than myself. I had wanted to die because no one had wanted me to live.

I lowered the glock in my hand. I couldn't kill this man. Whether he really was scum or just a man who had lost his way for awhile, it was not my job to kill him. I was not here to pass judgement. Who was I to end his pathetic life? To end it all before he had the chance to make things right again. He deserved the chance to redeem himself, didn't he? Didn't we all?

As soon as that thought flitted through my mind a bullet hole appeared in the man's forehead. Then he was falling backwards. His body made a soft _thud_ as it hit the pavement. I stared at him stupidly for a moment, wondering what had happened. Wondering why there was a bullet hole in his head when I had decided not to shoot him.

Then I was ducking behind a dumpster, listening for the sound of another shot, praying that it found the concrete rather than my back. But the sound never came, and after a quick scan of the buildings surrounding the alley, my heart began to slow a little.

I looked over at Toby's body and examined it more closely.

I had not killed the man, but I had a good idea of who had. I could see the bullet a foot or two from Toby, where it had lodged itself in concrete after piercing through skull, and now glinted in the dim light of a street lamp. With a quick look I already knew it was from a German Blaser 93 Tactical. One of Malice's favourites.

"Shit," I muttered beneath my breath. "What kind of game are you playing, Malice?" I was tempted to search the only building I knew Malice could have shot the bullet from according to the angle, maybe in an attempt to intercept her, but I knew she was already long gone. I could hear distant sirens now, and whether or not they were headed here I figured now would be a good time to leave.

I took one last glance at Toby Jordan before I turned my back on the messy scene and made my way down the alley and to my car. I supposed not everyone got a chance to redeem themselves. I would do well to remember that.

/

I stifled a yawn as I waited for the hearing to commence. I hadn't gotten a blink of sleep last night. I didn't want to blame Dean, to admit that his presence bothered me so much, but it was the truth. A lawyer couldn't deny the truth. They could manipulate it and mould it into something that benefited them – that was the skill of a lawyer – but at its core, it was always the same lump of fact.

This truth was a particularly ugly lump that I didn't want to touch, let alone mould. I would leave it alone for now, push it into a corner and try to ignore it. I had more pressing issues to deal with.

Like where the fuck Toby was. Glancing down at my watch, I frowned. The guy was an asshole, that was for sure, but one thing he never was, was late. The apocalypse could occur, with people screaming in the streets and meteorites reigning down from the sky, and he would still be on time.

"Any word from Toby?" I leaned over and asked my superior. Charles shook his head and then shrugged his shoulders as if to say, 'your guess is as good as mine'.

I leaned back in my chair, wondering why courtroom furniture was always so uncomfortable, and began to drum my fingers on the well-worn tabletop. If Toby didn't get here in the next five minutes, we'd have to begin the hearing without him. I wasn't too worried, for Charles and I could easily fill in for his absence, but it never looked good when a lawyer was a no-show.

Charles' phone went off, the boring, professional ringtone that every lawyer seemed to have, including myself. As the man answered, I couldn't help but glance at my watch again. Only a minute had passed since the last time.

"What?" Charles' startled tone caught my attention, and suddenly his conversation was registering. "How the fuck could this happen? Do they know if it's connected to the case?"

I wondered what he could be talking about, what could have gotten him so alarmed. "I understand. We'll head back to the office straight away." He was hanging up now, and when he turned to me I gave him a quizzical look.

"Are there technicalities in the case?" I asked, finding it hard to believe since I had gone through the details with a fine-toothed comb. Twice. "Something we missed?"

"Toby's dead."

I felt the blood drain from my face. Every drop. I must have looked like Caspar the friendly ghost at that moment, because the words that had come from Charles' mouth were too insane to believe.

"How?" I heard myself ask, surprised that my voice didn't tremble.

"Bullet to the head. Shot in an alleyway by his place. Not sure who did it yet, or why. Might have been a mugging but they found his wallet on him, nothing missing. Happened last night and a garbage guy found him this morning.

"Shit," I breathed.

"Yeah, no kidding. If this is connected to the case then whoever did it is sending a very loud warning. Donovan wants us back at the office ASAP. We might be sitting ducks where we are right now. Trial has been rescheduled. The judge has already been notified.

"Yeah, of course." I was feeling dizzy and I wasn't quite sure why. Maybe it was because Dean's prediction was coming true. Maybe it's because I thought I had been prepared for this but it turns out I really wasn't. I thought about Jess and I couldn't breathe.

"Let me just use the washroom before we leave," I said, standing up. I needed some cold water splashed on my face or else I feared I would not be able to leave the building in a calm and orderly fashion. It was never good for lawyers to lose their cool in public.

"Sure. Just hurry up, Campbell. The sooner we leave, the better."

The washroom was empty when I entered it. I didn't walk to the sink to run some cold water. Instead I stood in the middle of the space, contemplating; wondering why a lawyer was dead and if I was next. There was a fear that had rooted itself in the pit of my stomach ever since I had arrived in New York City, and it was becoming hard to ignore as it grew. It made me angry, to feel concern for my own well-being when I should have been trying to figure out who had killed Toby. It reminded me of when I was a scared teenager running for his life, helpless. The room was silent for a moment, but then the frustration in me exploded.

"Fuck!" I swore, kicking a metal garbage can across the tiles and sending it crashing into the wall. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!"

I had never liked Toby, but I knew he didn't deserve to be killed in some back alley, his brain matter splattered across dumpsters like that of a stray dog. What I disliked even more was the fact that this meant Dean might actually know what the fuck he was talking about. But how had he known? Was he connected to this somehow? Was _he_ the one who had killed-

I stopped that thought, the idea too much for me to handle right now. Instead, I splashed my face with water and readjusted my tie, checking in the mirror that I passed as moderately calm before exiting the washroom.

Charlie was waiting for me outside in the hallway, along with a security guard who looked like he should have retired a decade ago. Charlie's ear was pressed against his cellphone as his jaw worked nonstop. He was doing a slightly better job at looking calm than I probably was, but not by much. I guessed no one really got used to being in danger.

"Mr. Campbell?" The security guard walked up to me and I was surprised by how spruce he was for his age. "I'm Daryl Whitestone. I was told to escort you and Mr. Levitson here to your cars. My understanding is that the police are on their way to escort you to where you need to be. They should be here shortly."

Damn, the police? Seemed mugging was definitely crossed-off the motives list. I nodded my head as I followed Daryl and Charles down a wide hallway, my superior still speaking in a rushed tone on his phone. It took everything in me to not look over my shoulder or to quicken my pace.

"Jerry, I know what you're trying to do," Charles said angrily. "But you can't assume that these guys are just going to tell us-"

There was a scream. A woman's, but before I could turn around and determine who had made the sound or for what reason, a louder noise rang through the hall. A gunshot. More people were screaming now. Someone ran by me, knocking my elbow as they went. I realized I was crouching, my hands held up to cover my head.

I looked to my left and saw Charles sprawled face-down on the ground. Half of his head was splattered on the marble floor. Before I could process what was happening, someone was grabbing me by my arm, pushing me to the side. I let them, trying to look behind me to see who the shooter was. I caught a glimpse of a man in a navy blue business suit carrying a shotgun. The weapon was aimed directly at me, but as a spray of bullets were shot from its barrel I was shoved behind a corner. The bullets found Daryl instead. He was thrown to the side, several wounds opening up in his chest and spewing blood everywhere.

I watched as the man died, aware of other security personnel entering the hall and taking fire on the gunman. They must have got him, because the gunfire stopped shortly afterwards. I didn't look around the corner to make sure. I couldn't tear my gaze away from Daryl. His eyes were still open, even in the stillness of death, and I was reminded of that day. The day I had entered my mother's room and discovered her sprawled on the floor, blood everywhere, her eyes open and staring at the ceiling but perceiving nothing. Unable to rest even in death.

I wanted to crawl over to Daryl and close his eyes. I wanted to tell him I was sorry for having gotten him killed. I wanted to thank him for saving my life. But suddenly I was being surrounded by men in uniform, their arms pulling me up, leading me out of the courthouse and down the endless white steps and into the backseat of a car. People shouting and screaming everywhere, angry and afraid. Confusion. Chaos. Terror.

As the car door shut the sounds dimmed, and it was like I was suddenly in some sort of cocoon. It was peaceful in here, a respite from the anguish that had surrounded me only a few moments before. I realized, not for the first time, that New York City was not a welcoming place. I had known that years ago. The city had never welcomed me, with its corners and sharp edges, its cracks and shadows. It had been like an indifferent mother, providing a home but its love never forthcoming. Yet somehow I had remained within it, because there really was no other place for me. And now that I had the entire world before me, I still chose New York. Maybe it was because I had started rotting with the city years ago, and had returned to finish the job.

The next hour flew by in a blur. I faintly remembered realizing that I was in the back of a police car, and then being asked to step out and entering the back of an ambulance. I wasn't hurt, and I told the paramedics as much, but they insisted I lie down as they drove me to the nearest hospital. A police officer rode in the back with me, taking turns with the paramedics to ask me questions. Do you feel pain anywhere? What did the shooter look like? Can you lie back for me as I take your blood pressure? Did he say anything before he pulled the trigger? Do you mind if I give you a small sedative to help you relax? Did you recognize him?

It was a relief when I was finally left alone, even if it was only a thin curtain that separated me from the rest of the ER. I could hear nurses calling out to each other, patients complaining, machines beeping, the police officer stationed outside speaking on his radio. But the noises were faint, like they were being muffled by a glass wall. I supposed I was in shock. That's what the paramedic had told me when I had refused the sedative. I wasn't exactly new to shock, but it had been awhile since I had felt it.

I heard the police man say something about the attacker being killed on site. Then there was a commotion outside the space I had been given. I was sitting on the edge of a hospital gurney when I heard a female's voice being raised in response to the officer's demanding tone. The curtain was suddenly pulled back and my body tensed for a moment, but then I recognized the person standing in the small space.

"Jess," I said in relief. She was dressed in her scrubs, her hair pulled back and a surgical mask hanging from her neck. I hadn't even realized what hospital I had been brought to. God, I hadn't even called Jess to tell her what had happened. It hadn't crossed my mind to do so this entire time. I wondered how she had found out.

"Your arm!" she said. I looked down at my right tricep where a large bruise was forming, directly where my limb had collided with the courthouse wall after Daryl had shoved me to safety. But it was probably the bright red blood splattered across my arm that had alarmed Jess. An image of the old security guard dying rushed through my mind, crimson everywhere, mixing with my memory of Jo holding a red towel against her abdomen. I shut my eyes, willing the visions away.

When I reopened my lids Jessica was standing in front of me, fear and concern claiming her soft features. "Are you okay?" she asked me. "How badly are you hurt? I heard there was some sort of attack. Is your arm okay? You're bleeding. How did you get hurt?"

"I'm fine, Jess." Her torrent of questions was just causing the headache pulsing through my brain to quadruple in size. "My arm is fine." That wasn't the truth, but I didn't have enough space in my brain to be concerned about a little bruising. Besides, I could be a lot worse off. I could have bullet fragments being pulled from my body right now, or worse, my corpse.

"Please, Sam. Let me just take a look."

"I said I'm _fine._ " I snatched my arm away. "This is not my blood."

"Whose blood is it? Sam, what exactly happened? I heard there was a shooter. I can't even imagine what you're going through. Can I do anything? How can I help?"

I felt my irritation level spike. "I'm _fine_ , Jess. This is not the first time I've been shot at." _And it's likely not going to be the last_ , I added in my head. But I had already said too much. Jessica was looking at me with frightened eyes, like I was turning into a stranger right before her.

"Not the first time?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Sam, you were almost killed today. Someone was trying to _kill_ you. What if they had succeeded? What if you had died? What would I do if-" She cut herself off, putting a hand over her mouth as she tried to hold back tears.

I got down from the gurney and wrapped my arms around her, holding her close as she began to cry, her shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry, Jess. I'm all right. I'm right here," I told her, trying to give comfort as I stroked her hair. "I didn't die. I'm not going to die for a _very_ long time. I promise. I promise, Jess."

I knew it was an empty promise, but it was all I could give to her right now. I was just as scared as she was. I had no clue whether I was going to live to see the next hour, let alone the next day, but I hated to see her cry. I would say anything to get the tears to stop, even if it meant lying to her.

" _Are you really not planning to tell her the truth about me?"_ I heard Dean's voice repeat in my head. " _Aren't you getting married? Or is that how it's done these days? Start a marriage off by lying to each other."_

I wanted to curse Dean right now. I hated him for being right. I hated him for getting involved in my life all that time ago. I hated him for taking seven years to tell me he was alive. But mostly, I hated him for being the only person who could really help me right now.

Someone wanted me dead. Again. If I wanted to stick around long enough to attend my own wedding, I needed to know who had me on their hit list, and the only way I knew how to do that was to get the help of someone with their very own. I needed Dean Winchester. God forgive me, I needed his help.


	11. Chapter 11

/

" _And sometimes I think I'd be better off out of the city all together._ "

\- _Night Swim_ , Josef Salvat

/

"I'm just glad you're okay, honey. I don't want you to worry anymore. I know Keiths and Laurel. They're good cops. If they're the ones assigned to you and Jessica, then you're both as safe as can be, all right? They'll take good care of you."

I listened to Ellen's voice as I paced across the kitchen tiles, my nails already bitten to stubs but my teeth continuing to gnaw.

"Yes, I know. Jo and I are just going to stay in tonight. I'm sure the regulars at The Roadhouse can stand one night away."

It had been a while since I had felt this way. I could almost feel the blood pumping through my body, my system on an adrenaline high ever since I had heard the news.

"She's fine. She's right here. Would you like to speak with her?"

Sam had almost been killed. People had died at the courthouse today, and Sam had been in the thick of it. He had been shot at.

"Jo?"

I knew what it was like to have a bullet tear through my body. I knew the sharp pain it brought, how it opened a hole in you and allowed your life to spill out all over the place. I knew what it was like to almost die.

"Jo."

I snapped my head up, looking at the phone that Ellen was holding out for me to take. She was staring at me with steel in her gaze, perhaps letting me know that I wasn't alone, that she was here now to protect me. But that was stupid, because I wasn't the one who needed to be shielded. It was Sam who had been targeted today, not me.

"Sam?"

"Hey, Jo." I almost sighed in relief when I heard his steady voice on the other side of the line. I wasn't sure how he could sound so calm in this situation, but then again, this wasn't Sam's first time at the rodeo.

"You okay?" I knew my question was stupid, but I didn't know what else to say.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He cleared his throat. "Listen, I'm about to do something really stupid, and I need you to tell me it's not the worst idea in the world."

I glanced at Ellen before making my way to my room, quietly closing the door behind me, figuring this was something I couldn't risk her overhearing. "Tell me."

But just as Sam launched into his plan I noticed I wasn't alone in my room. I almost shouted in surprise as I turned around and saw Dean sitting on the windowsill. It was a miracle I didn't drop the phone. Instead I stood there, my body stiffening, my adrenaline rush quadrupling. I was ready to bolt out the door but I remembered Ellen was on the other side of the piece of wood. She would want to know why I was rushing out of my room like the place was on fire.

And what was I supposed to tell her? That The Angel of Mercy was sitting on my windowsill, just relaxing there like he was a common dinner guest? That this wasn't the first time he had paid me a visit? Maybe I could lie and tell her my room really was on fire...

"– know it sounds insane, but the police have been on this case for ages, and nothing's come of it so far. If I'm ever going to find out anything more on this Azazel guy, I think I'm gonna have to go by it another way, right?"

I nodded my head, my eyes never leaving Dean's, but then I realized Sam couldn't see me. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I understand. That's, uh..." His stare wasn't wavering. "That's a good idea." I had no idea what my friend had just said, but my response seemed to be an appropriate one. I heard Sam make a noise similar to a laugh.

"God, I'm insane, aren't I? I mean, I know I am. But Dean's the only person I know who might be able to help. The only problem is I don't know how to contact-"

"Wait, what?" I finally managed to look away from the man on my windowsill, suddenly focusing on Sam's voice. "Dean? What would you need his help for?"

It was a mistake to say his name. I knew it as soon as the word left my mouth and Dean stood up from his perch, like he had been called upon in class to recite the pledge of allegiance or something.

"I just told you." Sam sounded annoyed. Or maybe that was just stress in his voice. "Have you even been listening? He's the only connection I have to the underground. I know he's not exactly trustworthy, but-"

" _Not exactly trustworthy_?" I could hardly believe Sam was saying these things. Maybe the stress of the day had gotten to him worse than I had imagined. "Sam, he's a _killer_. You actually want the help of a murderer?"

I was still aware that Dean was in the room and could hear every word of my side of the conversation, but fuck it. If he was so keen on breaking into my room every now and again, maybe it would do him good to overhear something unpleasant about him. It only served him right. Trespassers were bound to stumble across something they didn't like eventually.

"I warned you it was a stupid idea, Jo. And no, I _don't_ want his help – it's the last thing I could possibly want – but I need it. As much as I hate to admit that."

I shook my head in disbelief. Dean was watching me, his body still but tense, his eyes focused as if to pick up on any of my body's cues that could hint at what Sam was talking about.

"You _are_ insane, Sam." I was about to tell him all the reasons why this was a bad idea, but I knew he would have already gone over the entire list several times. If he had arrived at this conclusion then he really must be out of options. I sighed in defeat. "But I already knew that a long time ago."

"I know..." I could almost picture Sam running a hand through his hair. "But like I was saying, the only problem is contacting him. I have no idea how."

"I don't think that will be a problem," I told him, fighting the urge to laugh at the absurd situation I was in. "It seems Dean has a way of showing up when you least expect him."

I spent a few minutes more reassuring him that his plan wasn't the worst in the world, even though I was pretty sure it was. Dean was silent the entire time, appearing almost like a statue. He did not move at all, and I was grateful for that. I didn't think I could sound as calm as I did if I had to worry about Dean moving around my room. Eventually we said our goodbyes and I was hanging up the phone. As soon as the line went dead Dean was stalking towards me. "What did he say?" he asked me in a low voice before I even had time to say a word.

"It's nice to see you too, Dean. How are you? So nice of you to visit me without warning. Again."

" _What did he say?_ "

I knew I was already pushing my luck with my sarcasm, but I couldn't help it. Dean scared me, but he also pissed me off, and I wasn't exactly the most level-headed person on the planet. Sometimes my temper got the better of me.

"Do you really not know what a doorbell is? I mean, am I going to have to get metal bars installed on my window now? Is you showing up unannounced in my room gonna be a common event? Because I really don't need a psychopathic friend to-"

"Do not play games with me right now, Jo." His words were a growl, his body so close it was almost pressed against mine, the door blocking any escape route behind me. As he stared down at me I felt my anger vanish, fear replacing it.

"He said he needs your help," I blurted out. "I don't know why. He thinks you're the only one who can help him. Something about a person named Azazel."

Dean looked as if he didn't believe me, but then I saw something in his expression. Something almost like hope. Then he was striding away, back to the window where he stopped and stared out. "You didn't tell him I visited you." His voice was back to its normal tone, still low and gravelly but no longer like the grumble of an arriving storm.

It was not a question, but I answered anyway. "You think I want Sam to hate me almost as much as he hates you? He'd never talk to me again if he knew I had kept something like that from him, even if it was only for a little bit."

Dean just grunted in response. He seemed distracted, like he was already planning a course of action.

"Do you even know what Sam needs your help with?" I asked him. "Do you know the shit that went down today?"

"Of course I do. Why do you think I'm here?"

That didn't make any sense to me. "You hear Sam was almost killed and you come to _my_ apartment? He already knows you're alive, for whatever messed up reason you decided to tell him for. Why not go to _him_?"

"He didn't want my help," Dean said quietly, his mind still somewhere else. "He said he didn't want my protection."

"Well, I guess getting shot at makes you a little desperate and a lot more insane, because he wants your help now. But can you actually help him? Because I don't want you seeing him if you can't actually do anything, and especially if you're not actually looking to help."

He looked over his shoulder at me, a scowl on his face. "Of course I want to help. As soon as I heard about the shooting I came here to get you to convince Sam he needs my help."

That was a little surprising. I highly doubted I had the persuasive abilities to convince Sam to do anything, otherwise I would have been able to talk him out of accepting Dean's help. But I wasn't about to admit that. "Well I don't think he _does_ need your help. What can a killer with no morals possibly offer in terms of protection? He already has the police-"

Dean whipped around and was stomping towards me again. "The police? Jo, are you really that fucking naive?" He jutted a finger at his chest, leaning in towards me. "Why the hell do you think I'm still in this rotting city? Do you really think it's because I like the smell of piss on the street, or I like to chat it up with the crackheads and prostitutes lining the alleys? I'm here for Sam, Jo. I've _always_ been here for Sam."

If Dean had been a dog his lips would be peeled back in a snarl right now. That's what I thought as I realized Dean actually did care about Sam. In some warped, messed-up way, what he was saying was the truth. I could see it in his face. I could tell he wasn't lying. And for a moment he was no longer Mercy, a murderer, he was the man I had met seven years ago, still with secrets and hidden intentions but none of them evil, just human. He was just human.

But then I felt the door being pushed behind me, and suddenly I was being pitched forward and to the side, Dean stumbling back. As soon as I gained my balance back I whirled around and saw Ellen striding into my room, a gun in her hands, the barrel pointed at Dean's chest.

She looked startled at his presence, but not to the extent I had expected. I realized then that Dean hadn't been lying the other night, when he had told me that Ellen had known he was alive for a long time. His words had bothered me, but I hadn't even thought to bring it up with Ellen, not when I knew how sensitive she was about the topic.

"Get back," she said, her voice trembling despite the steel in it. "I'm warning you, I will shoot if you come any closer."

Dean didn't look alarmed, as if a gun pointing in his direction was something that occurred on a daily basis. Maybe it was. Instead, he cocked his head to the side as if he was trying to understand why Ellen was threatening to shoot him.

"This is a familiar scene." He jerked his head back as if suddenly remembering something that made him reconsider his statement. "Well, it would be if I hadn't had my back turned the first time around."

"Shut up and move back. I want you on your knees over there." Ellen gestured to below a picture frame of me and her hanging on my bedroom wall. "No sudden movements."

Dean obeyed, stepping back slowly until his back pressed against the wall, but he didn't lower himself to the ground.

"Leave us _now_." She hadn't removed her gaze from Dean, but I knew she was speaking to me. "I want you to go to Mrs. Perry's apartment. Tell her you wanted some company while I was at work and that you could use a cup of tea. She won't turn you down."

I hated having tea with Mrs. Perry, but I knew there was no arguing with the woman. I glanced at Dean, wondering if Ellen was actually going to shoot him. I was suddenly afraid of what she might do. I didn't want her to go to jail for killing an unarmed man, even if it was for a good reason.

"Should I call the police?" I managed to squeak out, but she didn't nod her head.

"Leave now, Jo. Don't tell Mrs. Perry anything. I'll be done here soon and then I'll come and get you."

/

I tried not to show any signs of panic, but the truth was that having a gun pointed at me, held by the woman whose husband I had killed, was not a situation I really wanted to be in. In fact, if I had known this was how my night would go, I would never have climbed through Jo's window to begin with.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing here?" Ellen snarled at me as soon as she heard the front door shut.

I swallowed, knowing I had to pick my words carefully if I wanted to get out of this alive. Ellen had been a cop, and I'm sure if she wanted to kill me and get away with it, she knew enough about how the system worked to get the job done.

But Ellen didn't even give me time to answer. Instead, she was aiming her gun higher, towards my face, as she said, "Are you here for revenge? Did you think you'd hurt Jo and then kill me?"

The accusation surprised me, but then I thought about it from Ellen's point of view. Of course she would have come to such a conclusion. Our last interaction had been in this very apartment, with me threatening to kill her. "You'd be dead already if I had wanted it, Ellen. You know that. You're not stupid."

She gritted her teeth, her trigger finger tightening a fraction. "Then why are you here?"

"I came because of Sam," I answered, hoping the truth would be enough for her to reconsider shooting me. "He's not safe-"

"No shit," she spat out. "Not with you in this city."

"He's not _safe_ ," I repeated, ignoring her interruption. "Because there are people who want him dead and are powerful enough to get the job done."

"Friends of yours, I'm sure."

"Ellen, listen-"

"Raise your hands. I want to see your hands."

I almost cursed aloud. I had been thinking about going for the piece I always carried at my back, but my hesitation had cost me. I didn't know how good Ellen's reflexes still were, and I hadn't wanted to risk it. But now I didn't even have a plan B if things went south. Talking my way out of bad situations had never been my specialty, and today that meant my life might finally end. Which I would have actually accepted if it wasn't for the fact that Sam needed my help, had actually _asked_ for my help. I hadn't been stoked to hear that he had almost died today, but the fact that his near death experience had possibly changed his mind about me, if only a little? I wasn't ready to die yet.

I raised my hands, palms out, showing Ellen I wasn't a threat.

"I thought maybe," she said. "Just _maybe_ , I had imagined that night. But to see you in my apartment again? With _Jo_?" Her furious expression deepened. "I am not taking _any_ chances with you, Dean Winchester. You are a selfish, cold-blooded killer. I don't know why you're still alive, but you should be rotting in hell right now."

I fought the urge to rub my face. "Ellen, you can say whatever you want, but I came here to talk about Sam. Besides," I shrugged. "I haven't killed a person in years. Ask my business partner. He gives me shit for it all the time."

She didn't seem to hear me, or maybe she just didn't believe the words. She was shaking her head back and forth now. "You keep talking about Sam but you're the worst thing that's ever happened to that boy."

The words were like a punch to the stomach, because they were the same words I had been thinking for the past seven years. I cleared my throat, trying not to show that her words had gotten to me. "Maybe," I managed to say. "But I'm also one of the only people who can help him right now."

"Help? You're a psychopath who's killed dozens of people, and you're saying you can _help_ Sam?"

I looked away, irritated. "I know it sounds crazy, but-"

" _Everything_ you say sounds crazy!" she yelled, the stress of the situation clearly getting to her. I couldn't really blame the woman. Having a known killer break into your home and finding him talking to your surrogate daughter was not exactly a calming experience. But if she still possessed the mind of a cop, I knew she wouldn't let the stress break her. " _You're_ crazy, Dean. You're fucked in the head, and I get why you are. I do, I really do. Your dad was a crazy asshole and he messed you up. You've probably been through stuff that no child ever deserves to go through, but isn't it about time to give yourself up? Haven't you done enough? Killed enough people? Ruined enough lives?"

I stood there for a moment as the room grew silent, absorbing her words. But then my body was a fluid movement of action, my feet springing me forward as my hand reached out, my body ducking to the side as I snatched the gun away from the woman. I could tell these past seven years had allowed Ellen to go at least a little soft, because she wasn't even able to squeeze a bullet out before I took the gun in my hands and pointed it at her, stepping back quickly.

She looked surprised, but she quickly recovered. Her brow furrowed in anger but her mouth smirked a little, as if she was challenging me. "Go ahead and shoot. You think Sam would ever let you help him if you killed me?"

I could hear fear in her voice even though she was trying hard to cover it. I knew she was right but I only smirked back. "Maybe if he never found out it was me who killed you. How does 'Dishonoured Cop Commits Suicide' sound as a headline to you?"

"Jo would know-"

"'Dishonoured Cop Commits Murder-Suicide' sound better?" That shut her up. I had no intention of killing either of them, but Ellen didn't need to know that. I quite liked her scared like this. After all, the woman had almost succeeded in killing me seven years ago.

"You don't get to feel angry at me for shooting you," she said, as if she had read my mind. Her body was shaking, her eyes glossy but still made of steel. "You killed my husband. You took him away from me."

"I did. I killed him and then you almost killed me. But I'm not angry because of that." Ellen looked taken-aback, and I continued, now free to talk as I wished to. "I deserved to die, and you were one of the many who deserved to kill me. Do you really not know why I can't let it go? Why I'll never forgive you?"

She shook her head.

"You took me away from Sam."

"I did that boy a favour," was her reply.

I smiled sourly. "Yeah, you did. In some ways I'm grateful for that. But there's another part of me, the selfish bit, that hates you for it. And I _need_ to continue hating you, Ellen, because otherwise all that hatred is going to be turned inwards, and I'll never survive that. I can't fight myself when everyone is already doing it for me."

I could tell my explanation was not what she had been expecting. She looked down, perhaps an attempt to hide tears in her eyes or maybe to control her anger. I couldn't tell. When she looked at me again she seemed older, the lines around her mouth and across her forehead appearing deeper than before. "I'll never be able to forgive you for killing him, Dean. Even if I know it wasn't just your decision to murder him. I knew how... how persuasive John could be. But John isn't here anymore. I have no one else to blame but you and me, and I have a selfish side to me as well."

I mulled that over, a little surprised that she might feel the same way as me. "I'm sorry about your husband," I said, letting the shame in my voice be clear. "I really am."

I saw a flicker of something pass over her face. Confusion, maybe? But then it was back to hatred. "I want you to stay away from Jo and to stay away from Sam."

I shook my head slowly. Sadly. "I can't promise that."

She looked sad herself now, like she was witnessing the beginning of a tragedy. "There's nothing you can do for him. You're only going to hurt him more."

I didn't know what to say to that. Hurt him more? The only thing I wanted to do was keep Sam alive. I wished Ellen could see that, but it didn't matter. I would never be anything more to her than the man who had murdered her husband, and that was fine. It was what I deserved.

I didn't say anything more as I backed up towards the window, the gun never wavering from Ellen. I knew anything else I said would do nothing to change this woman's mind. There was no way I could convince her that Sam needed my help, mainly because I wasn't even sure myself if I could help him. I didn't know who Azazel was. I didn't even have a lead I could turn to. I had no idea how to keep him safe other than making sure I was around the next time shit hit the fan.

But I didn't tell Ellen any of this. As soon as I climbed back onto the fire escape, I placed the gun on the windowsill and held my hands up again, to show I had no intention of hurting her.

"I'll stay away from Jo," I told her. Then I was leaving, praying to God she didn't feel the urge to fire shots at me as I hurried down the escape path. Then again, I deserved that too.


	12. Chapter 12

/

" _In a cool world, full of cruel things._ "

\- _Acid Rain_ , Lorn

/

I closed my bedroom door slowly, softly, making sure not to wake up Jessica. It had taken hours for her to finally fall asleep, and I didn't want to ruin that now. It was already close to one in the morning, and although both of us didn't have work later, on account of recent events, neither of us knew what to expect today. It was a good idea to get some sleep when we could. A piece of advice I would do well to take myself, but foolish to expect was possible.

I sat down at the kitchen table, trying to sort out the thoughts cluttering my brain, making sleep impossible. Maybe processing the day's events was a good idea, or possibly the worst. I had relived those few minutes in the courthouse multiple times already, asking myself if Charlie and Daryl would still be alive if I hadn't taken that timeout in the washroom. But it never did good to dwell on questions like that.

I stood up, finding it impossible to sit now too. Pacing the kitchen floor helped a little, but I was afraid the constant sound of my footsteps might wake Jess. Instead I walked into the guest room, not bothering to turn on the light. I closed the door behind me, looking at the sparse furniture in the moonlight, the several boxes we still had left to unpack pushed into a corner.

The bed was still a bare mattress, and I recalled Dean's body sprawled out on it, his skin littered with cuts. I had never asked him how he had become injured. I hadn't cared. I still didn't.

I walked over to the bed and heard it protest as I sat down on the edge of it. My conversation with Jo had been a little helpful, but I knew the girl thought I was crazy for wanting to reach out to Dean. She had only agreed with me because she was a good friend. Too good, I sometimes thought. I had barely spoken to Jo for the past seven years, yet here she was, still willing to get involved in my dangerous shit for the sole reason that she considered me a friend. I didn't deserve her. I just hoped that she was right about Dean, that he would somehow contact-

The sound of my cell phone startled me, actually making me jump. I cursed as I reached for it, wondering who could be calling me this early in the morning. Then again, it could be anyone from the police to my boss. After the killings in the courthouse, a call at this time was not exactly unusual.

The caller ID gave me no information, identifying the number as unknown. I swallowed before I answered, holding the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

"I'm only calling because of what happened today." My grip tightened on my phone as I heard Dean's voice. A mixture of relief and panic washed over me, leaving me feeling numb but weirdly relaxed. "I hope you realize now that you're not safe."

"I know that," I bit out, not wanting to admit it to him but not childish enough to deny it either. I thought about my fiancee sleeping in the other room, lowering my voice as I said, "Neither is Jess if she insists on staying here with me."

"So she's sticking by your side?"

I didn't know exactly what Dean meant by that, but it brought my defences up like a steel door on a bank vault. "Of course she is. Did you think she'd leave me or something?"

I heard the faint sound of squealing wheels, and figured Dean was driving. "I'm just saying, our kind of lifestyle is not exactly easy to take."

" _Our_ kind of lifestyle?" I stood up, feeling the need to pace again. "Don't compare my life to yours, Dean. I'm not a criminal. I'm the one who helps put criminals behind bars, where they belong. I'm nothing like you."

"Calm down, Sam. I just meant we both deal with the law." The sound of squealing tires again. I wondered how fast Dean was driving. Where he was going in such a hurry. "Yeah, we may be on opposite ends, but the danger is still there on both sides. It can't be easy for someone like Jess, someone whose never been apart of that, to cope."

"Don't concern yourself with how much or how little my fiancee can cope with," I told him. Is this what he had called for? To see how well Jess was coping? "She knew the risks of my job when she agreed to move to New York with me. How many times do I have to tell you to leave her alone?"

"Oh, that engagement ring on her finger tells me everything I need to know already."

I narrowed my eyes. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

He sighed, like he had just noticed a parking ticket stuck between his window wipers. "I don't know. Maybe I just never took you for one who'd settle down at such a young age. Just wanted to make sure you know what you might be risking here, with the dangers of your job and all."

"Bullshit," I spat. "Tell me the truth." There was silence, like he was deciding what words to say, but before he could make up his mind to answer truthfully I already had my answer. "You thought I'd never be able to get over you, didn't you?"

It was not what I had planned to say, and this was not how I had seen our conversation going, but I never knew what to expect when facing Dean. He brought words out of me that I didn't even know I was thinking until they were already out of my mouth and in the open. Dean was as unpredictable as the weather, and he made my thoughts feel that way too.

"Over me?" I heard him say, but I was already speaking over him.

"Are you forgetting the fact that I thought you were dead? That for seven years I thought you had _died_?"

"I never thought I was a thing to get over," he said quietly after a moment, his voice softening. "And I know. I _should_ be dead right now."

"Then why aren't you?" I had seen his body with my own eyes that night, broken and bleeding on that deteriorating boat. A messy, cold display of death. Why was he here, talking on the phone with me, alive and breathing? How was it possible? I had told myself I didn't care, that it didn't matter, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't bother me.

"That's not important."

"T'hell it isn't!" I shouted, forgetting about Jess sleeping or perhaps not giving a damn anymore. "You _die_ and suddenly appear again seven years later like nothing happened, and you tell me it's _not important_? I'd say it's pretty fucking important, Dean."

"No, Sam," was his reply, spoken like an adult denying a child. "What's _important_ is that you're going to be the one dead soon if we don't act fast."

"Don't try to turn this into something about me," I snarled, anger swelling inside of me at his condescending tone. "I know that's why you called but we're not talking about that right now. What I want to know is how you're speaking with me right now when I saw you dead that night."

The silence stretched on for so long that I would have thought Dean had hung up if it wasn't for the lack of a dial tone. "Someone helped me out."

I was surprised to hear this, wondering who it could possibly have been. The scene of the crime had been crawling with Feds that night. "Who?"

"Just an old… acquaintance of mine."

"If you don't want to tell me, that's fine, Dean. But then I don't want to hear anything you have to say."

"Hey, you're the one who wanted my help."

I wondered how he knew that. The only other person I had told my plans to was Jo. Had the girl somehow contacted Dean? Had Dean been secretly listening into our conversation? It was one thing to get my cellphone number, since it was written all over my business cards, but to tap into my phone conversations? "Well, I don't anymore," I said, not wanting to ask him about his probably illegal methods. "You can forget about it. Don't call this number again-"

"Will you just fucking listen to me for once?"

The volume of his voice startled me, but it was his tone that really shocked. It was similar to the time he had yelled at me to leave Jo when she was bleeding out, afraid we'd be caught by the cops if we stayed. It made me listen.

"A lot's happened since you left for school," he continued. "John may be gone, but after his death did you really expect things to get better? When he died there were a thousand more like him who scrabbled at the chance to become the boss, and some of them did."

He sighed over the sound of tires squealing again. "But you see, now it's even worse. At least when John ran things there was only _one_ boss. When he left the picture there were dozens of positions open for the taking. Now you've got a _bunch_ of evil sons of bitches running operations in several cities across the country, all with their own agendas. There has been over a hundred gang-related deaths in New York alone this year, and that's not even counting the innocents who get caught up in the crossfire or the ones that go unsolved or unreported. More people than ever are dying now because these organizations all want to gain more power, and there's really only one way to do that. They've got to fight for it. And they'll kill whoever gets in their way, even if that includes a hotshot, up-and-coming lawyer like you."

I thought about what he was saying, but it didn't change anything. It wasn't anything I didn't already know. "If you're going to refuse to tell me everything, then what else am I supposed to do?" I asked weakly. I was too exhausted for this conversation. Dean seemed to have that effect on me, but I kept seeing Daryl dying in my mind, Charlie's body sprawled across a marble floor. All I wanted was sleep, but I knew sleep would only bring nightmares.

"If you can't handle being on a need-to-know basis, then you can't handle what your up against," I heard Dean say. "You might as well get the hell out of New York while you have the chance."

"I'm not a coward."

"Good. So let me help you. Let me find out more about this Azazel guy and I'll update you when I have any information. Okay?"

I stood in the middle of the spare room, my feet having stopped their pacing, my head hung low. This was what I had wanted, wasn't it? I had asked for Dean's help, and here he was, offering it. Maybe _that_ was what bothered me, though; not the fact that I needed his help, but the fact that he was so willing to give it, like he wasn't risking his life for me so easily. When he did something like this, it made it hard to hate him.

"Okay," I heard myself agree. Then I hung up, because I knew I couldn't speak to him anymore. My head was already messed up as it was. I didn't need it to be shook up again.

/

The line went dead just as I shut off the engine of my car. I sat in the front seat for a moment, staring at the flip phone like it still held some memory of Sam or something stupid like that. But then I was shoving the phone into my pocket, exiting the car, and stepping out into the empty parking lot.

I readjusted my jacket, tugging at the front flaps, reaching back to make sure my glock was still sitting snug against my back, ready for quick access. I looked over at the clunky warehouse I had driven like a madman to get to in time. I was already late, not having planned my dramatic conversation with Ellen Harvelle earlier.

I began to make my way to the warehouse's side entrance, a single door that a large man dressed in black was blocking. As I walked across the gravel, it was not Sam's voice that flitted through my head, but Ellen's words from earlier that evening.

" _You're fucked in the head, and I get why you are. Your dad was a crazy asshole and he messed you up."_

Maybe it's because it was the first time I had heard words like that

" _You've probably been through stuff that no child ever deserves to go through."_

No one had ever said something like that to me before. They all called me a cold blooded killer, but they never told me they understood why I was one. They never admitted that what I had gone through as a child was something no child should have experienced.

It made me wonder if it was true. Growing up, I had never thought that I was unlucky or unfortunate. I had hated John at times, and I had wished that I had led a different life, but I had also accepted the fact that my life was my life and I had somehow chosen it. To be told that maybe it wasn't completely my fault I was the way I was? It messed with my head. Made me question everything.

It was a dangerous sentiment. A dangerous idea to dwell on. It was distracting, leading me dangerously close to self-pitying. I wished Ellen had never said those words. I wished she had stuck solely with the insults. Those were always easier to deal with.

The large man's demeanour changed as I drew closer. I could see his body physically relax as he recognized me, stepping to the side, a rifle swinging on his hip, partly concealed as he opened the door for me. I nodded at him as I walked by, entering a narrow hallway that led to the spacious warehouse.

As I entered the space, high-powered lights shone down from the ceiling, highlighting the shifting shadows of Crowley's men as they rummaged through three trucks parked in the otherwise empty warehouse. After Balth had given me the credit for Toby's death, he had agreed to partner with me again, granting me this job on the premise that it would be my last chance to prove I wasn't a complete failure. I knew the guy was likely to figure out I hadn't carried out the assassination eventually, but I wasn't about to pass up a good opportunity to prove myself, even if he was pissed later.

I hadn't wanted to use Crowley's men again, but they had proven reliable last time, and with Malice still in the picture I knew my men would be out of commission for awhile. I could see why Crowley had recommended O'Neil. He got the job done, but damn did he have a mouth on him, every other word coming from the guy a cuss as he directed the men, telling them where to go and what to do.

There were eight men in total, not including the ones posted outside, a mixture of guys ranging from big and burly to thin and wiry, but all of them holding an air about them that screamed criminal. Except for maybe the youngest one, who was probably not even of legal drinking age.

"Hey, you," I beckoned to a bald guy with a goatee coming out the back of one of the trucks. I recognized him from the last time I had worked with Crowley's men, but I didn't remember his name. He jogged over to me, his skinny legs surprisingly agile. "What's your name?"

"Kris," he replied, his voice higher pitched than I had expected.

"How much longer do you think this will take, Kris?"

"We're done with the first truck," he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at one of the vehicles, flashing me a glimpse of a tattoo on the inside of his wrist. "All of it seems to be there. Half-way done the second."

His tattoo was of a black cobra, but all I could think of was a Chinese character. One that meant "mercy". I recalled the first time I had noticed it on the inside of Sam's wrist. He had been sleeping on the train we had caught back to New York City the morning after we had first met, his arm lying limply beside him. For the last seven years I had wanted to ask him why he had that tattoo. Why did he have my old name written in ink on his wrist?

I suddenly realized Kris was waiting for a reply, watching me with a strange look. I scowled a little, wondering how I could zone out so easily. Thoughts of Sam had always been popping into my head unannounced and uninvited, but I couldn't let them distract me anymore. I would think of a solution to Sam's situation later, but for now I had to make sure these drug shipments found their way out of this warehouse.

I cleared my throat. "So we're talking, what, thirty minutes?"

"Twenty."

I nodded my head in approval. "Good. Get back to work." As the guy jogged away I realized tonight might actually go off without a hitch, which would be the first time in a long time. Maybe my reputation was salvageable after all.

The warehouse's darkened skylights suddenly looked sinister, the moon no longer shining through them, probably obscured by a cloud. I looked towards O'Neil and told him to hurry the men up. I suddenly wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible.

Ten minutes later and I saw Kris' head poke out of one of the trucks. He was gesturing for me to come over, as if there was some sort of problem I had to deal with. When I walked over to Kris to ask what he wanted, he pointed to one of the men standing a few feet from the third truck; the youngest one. "We're about finished with the second truckload, but the new kid over there doesn't seem right in the head. He's slowing us down. Been slacking all night long."

"Why are you telling _me_ this?" I asked, irritated. "O'Neal is supposed to handle it." I had bigger things to worry about than a misbehaving child, like my sinking business or Malice or, the newest on my growing list, Sam having a hit on him.

"I know," Kris said. "But if I went to O'Neal with it he'd probably end up beating the guy to a pulp. It's the kid's first run. I think he's just nervous. Maybe even a little scared."

I raised an eyebrow. "So you're suggesting I go _console_ him?"

Kris shrugged his shoulders. "If you want to get us moving along faster."

I glanced at the young guy again, noticing how he was standing still in the shadow of the truck, staring blankly at the vehicle's flank. "What makes you think I won't beat the pulp out of him too?"

Kris hesitated but then replied, "You don't seem the type."

I was a little annoyed by his observation, but he was right. I wasn't going to hurt the teenager in anyway, not for being scared. But it wasn't good that Kris knew this. In the type of business I was in, showing sympathy was a sign of weakness. Balth was right. I was no longer as feared as I once had been.

"Get back to fucking work," I growled. "Next time there's a problem with one of you guys, you bring it up to O'Neil, _not_ me."

Kris immediately obeyed, disappearing into the back of the second truck, and then I was standing still for a moment. I glanced at the boy again and then sighed deeply. He didn't seem to hear me as I approached. It wasn't until I dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder that he jumped and spun around, his eyes like giant saucers.

The teen was obviously scared shitless, but not from the shock I had just given him. His eyes were slightly red and puffy, and I knew that he had been crying. I guessed that when O'Neil had threatened to shoot one of the men in the head earlier for dropping a crate full of drugs, it had been the first time the teen had realized the shit he had stepped into. I had come over here with the intent of yelling at the boy, but I felt my anger ebb as I looked at his face.

I hated to admit it, but he reminded me of a younger Sam.

"What's your name?" I asked him.

"Adam," he said quickly, rubbing at his face, his other hand scratching at his short hair. "Adam Milligan."

"Well, Adam, you can relax. We'll be out of here soon."

He nodded his head but his shoulders remained tense.

I looked him up and down, disapproving at how scrawny he was. "How old are you?" I asked.

"Eighteen."

Eighteen. I recalled myself at that age. I was just making a name for myself, having a few prominent assassinations under my belt. It was the year I had first been called The Angel of Mercy. Malice had been the one to say it first.

I also recalled Sam at that age. He had been eighteen when he had killed his stepfather, just a kid like the boy standing before me, scared out of his wits yet trying so hard to prove himself. I briefly wondered where Adam would be in seven years. Big shot criminal or a corpse rotting away in some godforsaken gutter? Maybe he'd make it out of this life, find something better. Who the fuck knew? Who the fuck cared?

Apparently I did. "Where are your parents?"

He looked taken aback by my question. "My… My parents?"

"Yeah. Are they dead? Did you run away from home and they're out there looking for you? Or do they just not give a shit about you? What's the deal?"

"They're… I..." He frowned. "I don't know. I've never met them."

I scoffed at the teenager. "You're a lucky son of a bitch then. Now go help out. You keep slacking like this and I'm gonna have to call O'Neil over here and have him deal with you."

That seemed to get the kid moving, for he immediately nodded and then began to walk towards the back of the second truck. I watched him go, wondering what it would be like to have no parents, not even a memory of them. I envied him. Thinking of my mom never felt good, and thinking of my father felt even worse.

I watched Adam walk up the ramp to one of the trucks, but the teen didn't get very far. The sound of a gunshot ricocheted around the open warehouse and I watched as the teen's right leg buckled, a scream being ripped from his throat as he toppled to the side and onto the cement floor. More gunfire exploded and then chaos erupted, everyone running for cover, O'Neil yelling an endless string of curses as he returned fire in the direction of our surprise attackers.

My body had already begun to react before I had time to mentally process all that was going on. My gun was in my hand, pulled from its place against the small of my back. I was unloading a full clip in the direction the attackers' bullets had appeared as I ran to Adam. The teen was yelling out in agony, clutching and staring down at his calve that now had a giant hole torn through it, revealing unattached ligaments and spurting blood. He yelled even louder as I grabbed his shirt at the back of his neck and began to drag him backwards.

I set my sights on the hallway I had entered from as I saw one of Crowley's men get gunned down to my right. The exit was several meters away, but it would provide cover. I wished Adam was lighter as I continued to haul him through the warehouse. He was sobbing and thrashing as I pulled him across the cement floor, leaving a bloody trail behind us. I paused behind a crate, trying to decipher where the enemy gunmen were by the sound of their firing. I knew two were atop, meandering through the crosswalks. There were probably a few on ground level making their way towards our position.

Someone shouted a few meters away and there was a spattering of gunfire. I looked around the crate and saw O'Neil lying on the ground, clutching at his abdomen that was now gushing blood. He noticed me and called for help, reaching out as if I could pull him towards me with an invisible rope. I ignored him. I knew Crowley would be pissed, but I couldn't save all of his men.

Instead, I grabbed the screaming teen again and began to drag him as fast as I could to the hallway, knowing that even a second wasted could mean the death of both of us. I heard more shots and knew O'Neil was dead. Then the firing was upon us, and I saw bullets hit the concrete by Adam's boots just before we made it into the safety of the narrow passage.

"Stay here", I hissed, although I knew it didn't matter. Adam wasn't going anywhere with his leg as it was. Then I reloaded and pressed my back against the wall, preparing myself for the moment I would be required to poke my head around the corner once more. I would need to be quick. I would need to be precise.

I took a deep breath and steadied myself. I blocked out the sound of the teen crying beside me. The sound of gunfire receded to a dull noise in the background of my consciousness. I gripped my gun firmly, my hands cold and dry, and then I stepped out into the open space that had been pierced by bullets only moments before.

My eyes immediately picked up movement to my upper left and I lifted my arms while swinging my body around, making sure my feet kept moving. It took less than a second for me to aim and then the shooter up in the crosswalk was dropping his gun as a bullet hole appeared in both his hands. Someone was to my right, ground level, and I shot the guy in the thigh as I charged towards the crate I had taken cover behind earlier. There was another one up in the crosswalk above me, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Kris taking aim, and I ignored the _thud_ of the dead body as it hit the concrete a few meters in front of me.

The last guy I had shot was already reaching for the gun he had dropped, and I kicked it out of the way before he had a chance to touch it. He yelled in frustration and pain as I grabbed him by the neck and shoved him back against the hard floor. He tried to push at my arms, to have me release him, but my grip was strong and steady. Despite his heavy build and his thick biceps, he wasn't going anywhere.

I looked around me, spotting familiar faces only, the warehouse no longer full of the sound of gunfire. I heard several "clear"s being shouted, and I knew that we were safe for now. Crowley's men were mainly professionals, not like the greedy, low-life bastards I usually found working for me.

"Explain this," I growled as I placed a knee on my captive's chest. I saw him try to suck in a breath through a wide mouth, his tiny eyes glaring at me, his brown irises piercing. "Who the fuck are you working for?"

His voice held pain when he replied. "Fuck you."

_A tough one_ , I thought to myself. They were rare, but they came along every now and then; individuals who you couldn't easily break with the threat of pain. They were usually the ones who had experienced agony the most, or maybe not enough of it. I could tell this guy was the former, his nose fat and wide but its bridge angled such a way that I could tell it had been broken on more than one occasion.

I had to change tactics. "Is it really worth it?" I asked him. "Whatever you're getting paid, is it really worth your life?"

He smiled, blood in his teeth, despite the fact that he could hardly breathe due to my knee on his chest. "Go fuck yourself," he choked out.

I frowned, but before I could react appropriately, another of Crowley's men was dragging the first intruder I had shot towards me. He threw him to the ground, kicking him before saying, "You're both fucking dead."

The attacker was cradling his hands to his chest, red covering his torn palms and staining his shirt. He was mumbling things incoherently, probably praying or begging for his life. I decided that this one would be much easier to break.

Releasing the tough guy and standing straight again, I pointed the barrel of my gun at the cowering one. He broke out into tears as he noticed, and I realized he was probably around the same age as Adam. Eighteen-years-old. Buzz cut and a stud in his left ear. Trying so hard to be tough but still just a child.

"Who do you work for?" I demanded to know. "Who sent you here?"

"Don't fucking tell him, Tommy," Tough Guy warned. "You know what will happen if you do."

Tommy glanced at his teammate and then back at me, his eyes wide as he contemplated his choices.

"Tell me who sent you here and I promise I won't kill you." I had no intention of killing the boy either way, but he didn't know that.

"Don't fucking do it!" Tough Guy shouted. "He's lying."

Tommy didn't seem to hear him. In his teenage brain, he had just been given a way out of his impending doom, and there was no way in hell he wasn't going to take it. "Azazel," he said quickly. "All I know is he calls himself Azazel."

"Fuck," Kris said from beside me, mirroring my own thoughts. I swivelled my head to stare at him, my gun still trained on Tommy.

"You know who this Azazel asshole is?" I asked, keeping the excitement from my voice. I wasn't ecstatic about having been almost killed for a second time tonight, nor about the fact that Crowley and Balth would both be pissed at me for this little blunder, but I may have just been given a gift. I had no idea where to start looking when it came to Azazel, yet here were his employees, dropped right into my lap like a present from the man himself.

"Not really," Kris answered. "I've just heard some rumours.

"Well?" I raised an eyebrow as he refrained from saying anything more. "Care to enlighten me?"

Kris reached a hand up and scratched at the back of his head. "I've just heard his name tossed around here and there. Some say he's got a pretty big following. He pays his men well. Makes big promises. He's been wiping out a lot of the competition, creating a lot of enemies, but the problem is no one knows who he is. Not even his own men. No one knows what he's planning exactly, but it seems it's something big."

I took in everything he was saying, trying to calculate this Azazel's threat level, not just to Sam but to myself as well. Looked like Sam wasn't the only one with a hit on him.

I turned to one of Crowley's men whose name I didn't know. "You, go get the guy I dragged into the hallway over there. He's going to bleed out if he doesn't get help soon. Then take a few guys and start collecting bodies. I want all of the attackers searched. Give me wallets, cellphones, goddamn motel key cards if you find them."

The guy nodded but then gestured to the two men before us. "What about these two?"

"Put them in the truck with the load being delivered to Crowley. They're the only ones left alive, right? Dispose of the rest."

As the guy went to find Adam I heard Tough Guy mumble to himself, "We're both fucking dead now…"

"Relax, I'm not gonna kill you," I told him.

"You're sending us to Crowley." He spat a glob of blood to the side. "That's basically a death sentence. I've heard the rumours about that sick bastard."

I looked at Tommy, who had started praying or whatever again, and frowned. This could be Adam, the boy who never knew his parents. Or this could be Sam, a kid who had lost everything he ever cared about. Who was I to send him to an early grave?

I thought it over for a moment before saying, "Tommy, I want you to bring Azazel a message."

The kid looked up at me, his face a mess of snot and tears. "But I've- I've never met the guy. How can I-"

"I don't care if you don't know who the fuck he is, you better make sure this message gets to him."

He looked like he was about to plead for his life again. "What's the message?" he managed to ask through snivels.

"Tell him I want to make a deal with him. He leaves me and my business alone, I'll grant him an IOU."

I had no idea what the fuck I was promising, but I knew I couldn't let an opportunity like this pass me by. If Azazel had heard about me, about the Angel of Mercy, he might actually take me up on my offer, and even if I didn't meet with the man himself, this little gamble might still provide me with valuable information. I wasn't planning on actually killing anyone for the guy, but I would cross that bridge when I came to it. For now, it was all about starting a conversation with Azazel, and if this cowardly teen was the only way to do that, then fuck it.

"You got that?" I asked the kid, nudging his knee with my boot.

Tommy nodded his head vigorously but then seem confused. "Does this mean you're not going to kill me?"

Tough Guy replied before I could, his eyes trained on me. "He's letting you live, Tommy. Make sure his message is delivered."

It felt a bit like a waste to send Tough Guy to Crowley, for I always appreciated meeting those who were not easily broken by pain, but I knew the Irish businessman would be pissed if I let both of the living attackers go. Besides, he was my partner in this instance, and I couldn't afford to do bad business.

I turned to Kris. "Let the young one go, but bring the other to the truck." He nodded and stepped towards Tough Guy, ordering him to stand up and hobble towards the vehicles, but then seemed to hesitate, turning back around. "You know I've got to call Crowley right away, right?"

I held back a grimace but dipped my head in agreement. "Yeah, tell him what happened." I looked around the warehouse, at the bodies littering the ground. "And tell him he can have half of my cut as payment for his losses."


End file.
